


you urged your guilty flame

by americantoinette



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Capture, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, but I also make use of the real timeline for certain events, more or less, thanks to amc, will add tags as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-06-09 23:16:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15278364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/americantoinette/pseuds/americantoinette
Summary: “Where am I being held, Major Andre?” Ben asked, knowing he’d at least get some truth from the man. Of that much he had concluded.A smile softened the man’s hard gaze, his laughter lines striking Ben as handsome. There was a fraction of hesitation, but answered. “Right in the center of York City, Major Tallmadge.”





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by "In His Arms I Must Stay" from simplykayley. Following her idea, Gamble does take Ben to Major Andre, as promised in "Benediction".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some non-consensual use of drugs.

His bones ached, the pain at his skull pulsing with fresh feeling as he woke. Benjamin’s vision was blurred; he coughed as he strained his eyes, enough to fill his lungs, yet harshly enough to implant worry of illness in his mind.

“Ah, so the pretty lad wakes,” Spoke the figure at the fire - _Gamble_. Ben stilled in his attempt to loosen the bindings about his wrists. Damn any illness - he wouldn’t live long enough for any cough to take him, not with Gamble seeing to his fate. Certainly not while he was slung over a horse’s back like a peddler’s wares.

“Where are we?” His voice was rough and angered. He had been so rash today, so foolish in thinking disposing the Reverend would be a simple task.

He carried a dead man’s cross in his pocket.

Gamble chewed his tough meat, and carried the same tone he might with a friend over drink. “On your way to meet Major Andre - it’s th’least you can do for me. Seeing that you fouled my mission.”

Dread ran through Benjamin’s veins, anxiety curling at his spine. Civilian clothes. He was being taken to the Head of British Intelligence _under guise of a civilian_ . Nathan Hale came to the forefront of his mind, and he all but spat, “I won’t talk. You might as well kill me _now_.”

A noose for his neck haunted him, had haunted him in his dreams and in his reality since hearing of Nathan’s death. To be shot would be a mercy, but the British and their bloodyback immorality knew no mercy. His hands trembled slightly, though as Gamble rose he hid that fact, meeting the Englishman’s eyes with an iron gaze.

“Trust me here, Tallmadge,” A hand was placed at his shoulder, and Ben fought the urge to flinch. “I’d love ta give you a second smile like I did your old man Sackett-” This time Ben _did_ pull away from his touch, upsetting the horse beneath him, but not enough, not enough to-

Gamble grinned, and roughly pulled the back of Ben’s hair, pulling his face nearer to his. “But I got chastised, you see?” A blade was pulled from an inner pocket, firelight capturing its silver glint. He set the point at the apple of Ben’s throat, and the American swallowed. A blood necklace for a rope necklace-

“I won’t be making the same mistake again.” And Benjamin’s vision flooded with black, the settling ache at his head exploding once more. He slumped at the horse’s side.  
  


There were a few days of travel. That much Benjamin could recall. He had woken up the second time and Gamble had him swallow some water. He coughed most back up, and watched his captor under a glare.

“We’re gonna get _well_ acquainted, lad. But unfortunately I don’t trust you,” Gamble had been coating a cloth in something and Benjamin let out a noise of protest before the gag was placed in his mouth. He struggled, muffled swears plugging his own hearing. He would _kill_ this man, war or no war, morality or no morality -

He fell into unconsciousness.

The third time he woke up the gag had slipped past his chin, but he was no longer on a horse. Benjamin strained his neck, feeling his back already sore from the odd positions he’d kept. There was a cover over his head, but a few moments let him recognize the sway and shake of his transport. A _cart_ \- now he was truly the wares of a peddler, off to be presented to a royally commissioned officer. _Bastards_ , Benjamin thought vehemently, and grew agitated that his hands were now bound behind his back, ankles apparently having been tied together anew, as well. Uncomfortable and without the luxury of even knowing if Washington was yet looking for him, Benjamin closed his eyes and tried to think.

He stayed awake for hours, til he could see that the sun had gone low and they had come to a stop. Still he flinched in surprise when the covers were thrown off him, eyes adjusting to the new light.

Gamble let out a deep laugh, “Mornin’, Major! Hope you enjoyed your rest.” He motioned for Benjamin to come forward. When Ben hesitated, he drug him by his hands, dropping him to the ground. He let Ben awkwardly struggle to his feet.

Face heated with exertion and irritance, Ben swallowed his pride. “I need to-”

“Itchin’ for a piss? Give me a moment, lad. I’m not letting your hands free for anything.”

This lead to an uncomfortable moment where Gamble’s touch strayed and stayed for a beat longer than was appropriate, though he at least cast away his eyes while Ben relieved himself. The Englishman poked fun as Ben was tucked back into his breeches, and Ben wasn’t as self righteous or honorable as to not spit in his face.

Gamble struck him for it, hard enough that Ben fell on the ground, and he crouched beside him, untying the gag that had slipped from his mouth.

“So much better when you’ere sleeping, aren’t you?” He produced a bottle, holding the cloth against the opening. Ben eyed it warily.

“When am I to meet Andre?” He asked, not expecting much - they had to be in Tory country by now. His captor’s mouth twitched, trying not to grin.

“Ah, soon enough. Already sent word of your capture - but not to old Washington. The Major’ll take care of that, I expect.”

Ben’s gaze went hopelessly to the sidearm Gamble had, and flicked to the horse. A lost fantasy, that he knew. Still he bit at Gamble’s fingers when trying to return the gag, and he broke skin, causing a stream of curses that even he, who lead soldiers, was oddly impressed with. He earned a boot to the ribs for his efforts, and the cloth was bound so tight it cut into his cheeks.

“Can’t imagine how Andre will handle you,” was all Gamble said as he tugged Benjamin up and shoved him into the cart again. Ben’s senses were dulling already, but he wondered what the bastard meant. Gamble appeared to understand that.

“He’s soft, that one. Doesn’t care for roughing traitors up.” He scoffed, as though it were childish to treat fellow man with regard. Ben felt a strange, and perhaps misplaced, respect for John Andre, settle in him.

Gamble had himself a bottle of spirits, and Ben slipped away to low singing;

_Mis - ta - ken fair, lay Sherlock by, His doctrine, doc - trine_

_is de - cei - ving; For while He te - aches us to_

_Die, He cheats us, cheats us_

_Of our living_

  


Shock overtook Ben’s senses once a bucket of water was thrown on him, and he gasped, searching for his tongue to curse, but finding himself still gagged. He instead took notice that Gamble was not the one to wake him, and that his new surroundings brought him inside.

His hands were bound again, behind a chair, and his ankles to its legs. Whatever ensign had been assigned to wake him threw an insult about Washington’s men his direction, and Benjamin could only let his pride burn.

The ensign left the room, perhaps to fetch Andre - perhaps Gamble. He was in the thick of it, now. Enemy territory unlike he’d ever seen. Where were they? New York? It had to be - Abigail didn’t tell often of Andre leaving the area surrounding York City.

Exhaustion didn’t keep his anxiety from alerting every nerve in his body. Christ, he was out of uniform. That was action enough for the gallows. He swallowed, and denied himself to think of that. He’d get out. He’d return to Washington. He would see this war out to its successful American victory. Benjamin believed fully in the cause - and that he would see it to its conclusion.

A British Major now dangled that prospect in front of him, that future hung limp beside him on a gibbet, as if to warn the colonies: _Go ahead, dear America, rebel against the King that loves you so - look upon the consequences._

“There’ya are. Been missing you, lad.” Gamble appeared in the room, freshly shaven and looking every bit his lobster self - the red uniform marking him as Lieutenant crisp and laundered. Though Benjamin outranked him, as an officer and, he felt, as a man, there was an obvious power play in the room.

The reds felt they were in control, and their captured blue boy wasn’t even in Continental colors.

He’d feel more angry if he wasn’t so ashamed; the nature of his capture having been unpleasant, his pathetic attempts to defy Gamble even more so.

The devil himself was removing Ben’s gag, allowing the man to stretch and relax his jaw. Ben drew his eyes over him before he spoke.

“Did you use opium to silence me?”

His response was a laugh. “Smart boy! Bet it did ya cough good.” Gamble nodded, producing the same bottle Ben had seen while on the road. “Laudanum, mixed in with all sorts of hellish shite. Quite a price, but I couldn’t keep knocking you about to stay down.” He smiled, in such a way that sent Ben to eye his exits immediately.

Nothing except the door that the ensign had gone through and that Gamble appeared from. There was a high slit of a window, letting in sunlight, and between that, the wooden yet straw covered floor, and a hearth led Ben to believe they were at a farm, or some sort of cellar.

His captor tutted through his teeth, already recognizing that Benjamin was plotting. “Don’t exhaust yourself w’that. You wouldn’t make it out alive.”

Ben grew heated, “I told you - I’ll say nothing. It’s better to kill me.” He was going to stay silent; betraying the trust of Washington, the trust of his men and his friends was incomprehensible. To die without seeing a united America, a free America, would hurt him, but to live and die a Judas would shame him, bringing only pity and malice from writers of history.

Gamble frowned, and bent his knees to look at his face. “I might’ve told you Andre doesn’t care for torture, but that doesn’t mean you won’t be begging to give up your General.”

Ben’s anxiety went to grip at his stomach, chilling his blood. He did not know - did not _want_ to know what ideas Gamble might have, but his countenance betrayed only hatred.

He slammed his forehead against Gamble’s, causing the lieutenant to stumble backward. “Jesus _fuck_ , you-” Gamble must have thought better of his earlier decision to use other means of coaxing out obedience from Benjamin, because a knife was pulled out from his waist and he snatched Ben’s face, holding his jaw while blocking his airway.

Ben could feel Gamble’s hot breath on his skin, and his eyes were fire. If he would die- would his father be proud of his service? Would Samuel? Would Wash-

He gasped as the blade broke the skin of his cheek. “Now,” said Gamble, “I’m willing to be nagged, put in my place like some-” He pressed harder, drug the point a little further down. “-trouble making _schoolboy_ , if it means I can make you bleed, Tallmadge.” The hand at Ben’s throat squeezed, and Ben choked out a breath, though his gaze never broke Gamble’s stare.

A door swung open, and Gamble’s eyes grew wide, before he turned away from his task. His hand dropped from Ben’s throat, and the latter heaved some deep breaths, before landing eyes on their visitor.

The dread that had been festering in him for days seemed to gather all at his throat. This had to be Andre-

Tall and handsome, the immediate conclusion was that this was some sort of fop, a man only to be competition at a ball for ladies’ attentions. But there was something that made his face hard, though etched with laughter lines, and he held Gamble under a glare that could silence a mob.

“And what has our guest done to make you so impulsive, Lieutenant Gamble?” He asked, betraying no temper, only command.

Gamble straightened, being bold enough to clean the blood on his knife in front of his superior, with the cloth that had drugged Benjamin all the way here. “T’was only teaching him some manners, Major.”

Andre turned his eyes on him, and Ben tried to look as calm as possible, or at least as impressive. Andre looked his face over, and tilted his head. “I’ll put his manners to the test, Lieutenant. I do believe your taste for bloodshed nearly cost us a mission before, yes?”

In a flash of anger, Ben snapped. “He _murdered_ our intelligence officer in his own tent.”

That gaze of command went back to him, and Andre narrowed his eyes, untying his cloak to place it over another chair in the room. “Well, now I must agree with Lieutenant Gamble,” He started as he sat, crossing his legs as a gentleman. “Your manners _can_ use a little work, Major Tallmadge.”

Blood trickled down Ben’s cheek. “So you do condone torture of prisoners?” He asked carefully, and gave thanks to God it was Gamble rather than Simcoe with them.

“No,” said Andre, with a finality that spoke volumes. “You won’t be harmed under my watch. Not after _this_ ,” His attentions went to the offender. “Lieutenant Gamble, I will expect you later for a little talk. Now, if you would please give Major Tallmadge and I some privacy.” He nodded his head politely towards the door. His subordinate seemed taken aback.

“You want to be left alone with a rebel?”

Andre’s lips smirked. “Do I appear to be helpless against a man who, under your care, wasn’t fed for four days and is now bound limb by limb to a chair?” There was something critical about the way he spoke, that made Ben shift in his seat. Had he not been the man in question, he would say that Major Andre did not appreciate the state he came in - or found him in, either.

But he _was_ the man in question, and if he was to be left alone with Andre, he would make use of it.

Gamble struggled to articulate a response, then decided to go with his better judgement and gave a salute. “Sir,” He spoke, and took his leave, giving Benjamin one last look that made the latter wish his hands were free.

Andre sighed as soon as the door closed. “I apologize for my men and their conduct. War has a way of… bringing out flaws in us all.”

Benjamin was going to remain civil, until he saw a reason to be otherwise. He cleared his throat. “And what are your flaws, Major Andre?”

There was a glint to the other man’s eyes. “Perhaps my weakness to women, to fall away from sobriety. I have no doubt you think it a flaw of mine to be loyal to my king.”

Ben shook his head. “You think me a fool for being loyal to a General over a King. A tyrant your king may be-“ At this Andre’s eyes darkened, “But loyalty, even misplaced, is not a flaw.”

The Major smiled. “What a sound mind, Major Tallmadge. Are you certain you’d not want to wear red?”

Insulted, Ben turned cross. “I’m not here to be turned, Major Andre, and you’ll get no information from me-“ He was cut off by a chuckle, and balked at the sight.

“I was merely teasing, Major. You had just given me a compliment of loyalty! No man who speaks so sincerely would betray their _cause_ ,” Andre was careful about referring to America as a country, “-just a few words later.” He seemed to think of something particular. “It does take more than that.”

Ben grew uneasy, wondering what it _did_ take for a Continental man, a man who George Washington put his faith in, no matter the rank, to change sides and dye his coat in the blood of his brothers. He would personally never fall that far, but he’d also never _understand_ , and it made him wonder just how his rival spymaster conducted himself.

“Not for me,” He finally said. “I won’t break under any pressure, sir. Whether or not you do torture me, I won’t betray any confidence entrusted to me.” He’d repeat it until they recognized his sincerity - he would not give John Andre _anything_.

Andre listened to him in a studious manner - was he attempting to read his character as thoroughly as he could? Ben, no matter how old he grew or if he did deserve such attention, grew a shade of red under his gaze, and cleared his dry throat in embarrassment. He thought himself humble, and speaking boldly made him think of his childhood, where his father would chide him for being too impertinent.

“I must say, Major Tallmadge,” Andre said, still in that elegant manner that betrayed no passion (so unlike Ben, who had been told repeatedly by Washington and Hamilton both he needed to cool his fervor). “I’ve always wanted to make your acquaintance. Though your little spy ring continues to be a thorn in my side-” Ben’s heart thumped at his chest, though logic dictated if the British already knew of Culper’s identity they would have their attentions elsewhere. “-it also earns my respect. You’re young, but have already done so much to impact tides in this war.”

Was he supposed to swell with pride? Thank Andre for recognition of his actions? Not quite knowing what to say, Benjamin only nodded.

“Being young, however, comes with some… setbacks, if you will.” The British Major leaned forward, elbows at his knees. “Surely you’re smart enough to see that keeping silent will not help the fact that you are an enemy officer, in civilian guise, in enemy territory.”

“I was brought here, I did not _saunter_ my way into the city, Major Andre.” Ben spoke hotly, irritated that even such a well-made man only wanted him to spill secrets - or either spill his blood. Again Andre sighed, and cast his eyes to the floor.

“I don’t think any judge of… ours, will care about the details. Treason is treason,” There was finally something to be read in Andre’s tone - regret.

But Benjamin Tallmadge was a traitor to no Crown - he did not bow to any other than the Almighty. “I can’t be a traitor to anyone other than my men. I recognize no _King_ in America, because he reigns across the sea.”

Andre abruptly stood, startling Ben enough that he wondered if Gamble’s assumption of how soft the Major could be was an error. Would he strike a fellow man of the same status, the same line of work?

Would Ben do the same?

Instead, Andre, though his face had grown hard, pulled something out of his cloak behind him. “We searched you while you were unconscious, to see if you were carrying intelligence.” Those eyes flicked up at him. “Which you were not, unfortunately.” He was circling him, and Ben controlled his breathing. An opening, any opening, and he would take it.

The Major stopped behind him, and Ben heard him unsheath what simply had to be a knife, and he closed his eyes. War brought out the flaws of men, perhaps John Andre had been pushed-

His wrists were released, and he let out a breath, mind already racing. But he would not make any rash decision, he could not waste it. Not yet. He brought his hands up to rub at the raw skin, flexing his fingers as he did.

“Thank you,” He said, sounding foreign to his ears. Ben was trying to piece together exactly who he was dealing with, when Andre came into view again.

In his hand dangled Reverend Worthington’s cross. “Don’t thank me just yet, Major Tallmadge. Perhaps you’d like an article of faith to remain on your person?” The cross was set in Ben’s palm, and he swallowed as his hand clasped over it. Andre took his seat again.

There were guards outside the door. There simply had to be. And if Ben was outside of York City, the reaction would be immediate- he was mere feet away from the enemy Head of Intelligence and he could do _nothing_.

He was still being studied, no matter how Andre did not betray his curiosity in his speech. Benjamin had to _wait_ for the opening he so desperately wanted. He had to wait…

“Where am I being held, Major Andre?” Ben asked, knowing he’d at least get some truth from the man. Of that much he had concluded.

A smile softened the man’s hard gaze, his laughter lines striking Ben as handsome. There was a fraction of hesitation, but answered. “Right in the center of York City, Major Tallmadge.”

Ben stared, at a loss of words, and realization took over his features. _Damn_ . He had been doubting a clean escape if they were _outside_ New York, but to be _in_ it made his idealistic spirit flare. Impossible was not something he could encounter and accept.

Time would tell the possibility of escape. He nodded, and regarded Major Andre cooly. “Thank you. Have you informed General Washington of my capture?”

Andre cocked his head, his hands entwined over his crossed knee. “I’ll be penning a letter as soon as our visit’s over. I’ll want your signature, to give him my good word of your well being.”

Well being. He was starving, unbearably thirsty and in need of a comfortable sleep. He missed the military cot he had once considered unbearable back at camp. Benjamin gripped the cross in his hand, and nodded stiffly.

There then came moments of silence, almost awkward, but not quite breaching so. Ben was well aware that Andre was still going over what he might do with him, how he may handle this prized prisoner he now held in his hands. Tallmadge was well known in the British army, at least to its officers, for having gained Washington’s favor. Most of what circulated caused Ben a great deal of rage and embarrassment for his commander, but he could not deny that some sentiment was bestowed upon him by a man so many regarded as heartless. For that alone his capture would be seen as a British achievement.

The Major yielded first, apparently having spent enough time with a prisoner who wouldn’t talk. “I will see you later this evening, Major Tallmadge, after dinner. I trust you’ll behave until then.” Andre stood, returning his cloak to his shoulders. He didn’t make a move to put Ben back in his bindings, and gave him a kind smile as he opened the door. “Do take care when thinking of your life before I come back. Good day, Major.”

Ben was left to his own devices, and he turned the plain silver cross over in his touch.

Andre held his life in his hands, yet Ben held intelligence that he could, theoretically, use against him. It was not the same power play Gamble had attempted, in dressing as an officer and threatening him. Instead Andre spoke to him as an equal, and sat to show such standing. It was a game of draughts, and though Andre had won the first move in securing his capture, the win could go to either side.

Benjamin simply had to learn Andre’s strategies.


	2. II.

There were the stirrings of a plot instilled in his mind, and the next few hours of his imprisonment proved crucial to it. Gamble’s assumption that John Andre was “soft” proved true, in a sense. He had a washbasin sent for Ben (no razor, of course), and under watch Ben cleansed himself of grit and blood. Major Andre’s demeanor betrayed no  _ real _ “softness”, as he did not seem a coward nor weak spirited. Yet this action gave the idea that he could be manipulated through his kindness.

Major Andre had also not yet broken news of Ben’s capture in the British ranks. According to the ensigns posted outside the door, only General Clinton had received immediate word of  _ Washington’s boy _ being caught in a stroke of luck perfectly suited for English triumph. It seemed clear that briefing other ranking officials was exactly the business Andre was currently conducting.

Ben was distressed to think of his fate being a subject over supper and Madeira, and he had gone to pacing the length of his room. It boasted only the two chairs and a table along the same wall as the door. He felt certain in his assumption this was a cellar of some sort, more likely a proper basement. 

Confirming his whereabouts came along with dinner.

He had been staring at the unlit hearth, as if the cold ashes might speak the same wisdom that had come from Sackett, or the carefully chosen yet raw words of Washington. Even a raunchy joke from Caleb would have been most welcome. 

He was caught up in this self-indulgent bout of misery when the door opened, and he turned to see a familiar face, momentarily disoriented.

“Abigail?” He asked. The woman eyed him warily, nodding as she set down a tray. 

“Major Andre knew you’d be wanting dinner, sir.”

Ben kept his want for a meal at bay, stepping toward her. Abigail lifted her chin, causing Ben to halt in his advance. She was still a servant to Andre - not entirely a friend to Ben. He would respect that, as he was beginning to see the man was someone to admire. 

Her voice was cool, commanding in itself. “The Major will be down to see you soon.” She gave a short curtsy, and made to leave.

“Abigail-” Ben started again, and she turned, the look in her eye giving away her own unease at the situation.

He hesitated, though he already knew. His voice came out barely above a whisper. 

“Am I being held in Major Andre’s house?”

Her eyes filled with tears she would not allow herself to shed, yet her voice was steadfast. “He’s a good man. He won’t kill you, Major Tallmadge.”

He found he could not trust that, even from his own agent.

Abigail left the door open in her wake, so that Ben may dine under a supposed watchful gaze. He sat down with a tremor in his hands, hoping to still it with a drink of sherry.

He thought, and spotted a chance as he did. A knife for cutting meat was part of his dinner utensils. Though smaller than what would be ideal, it was a weapon, and that was something Ben needed tonight.

He could not just tuck it away in his jacket (the same clothes he’d been stuck in for days). The ensigns were prone to distraction with one another, but otherwise they took their charge seriously.

His left hand gripped the knife handle as he started coughing, reaching for his glass only to knock it down and have it shatter into pieces.

The ensign’s reaction was immediate. “Jesus  _ Christ _ , can’t contain yourself?” Ben shook his head, continuing that false cough into his sleeve, and the guard cursed, stepping around the mess so that he may not scuff his boots. His back was turned, asking his friend to call down that maid.

Ben stuffed the dinner knife into his boot, and then went to the ground, still feigning a momentary lapse in health. He was attempting to pick up pieces of glass when the ensign drug him up. 

“Can’t have you collecting shards, Major. Might be beneath you.” The guard grinned; and the only thing that struck Benjamin was how young he was. He pushed him back to his chair and Ben finished eating with a falsehood of bruised ego.

The knife pressed uncomfortably against his calf.

Abigail returned after dinner, and was silent cleaning up, until she came to light the hearth. Ben observed her from where he moved his chair, in the center of the room, noticing the door was half-shut.

“Major Tallmadge,” Her voice now betrayed the same unease her eyes had earlier. She placed in a few small logs, and held the bundle of kindling in her hands. “There was a knife on that tray. I’ll be needing it back.”

His lips parted in surprise, heart at his throat. “I-“

“I told you Major Andre would not kill you, sir.” She made sure to direct her words at the hearth, rather than give be giving him too much attention. “But hurtin’ him will make the generals change his mind. You’ll have to…” Abigail sighed, and Ben thought the sound rather sad. “You’ll have to pick a better moment.”

He snapped at her, “And what better moment than when I’m alone with him? I need to return to camp-“

“You need to stay alive.” Abigail replied with the same feeling, “I’ll help you how I can, but you won’t be using that knife now.”

The ensigns shuffled outside, and Ben set his jaw, taking the blade from his boot by the hilt and presenting it to her. Abigail took it without another word, and finished her tasks.

She left him alone, and the door closed shut, extinguishing the chance he’d been hoping for.

Andre came not a half hour later. He was dressed down, somewhat - no cloak, a loosened cravat and his waistcoat was unbuttoned nearly halfway. Ben realized it was likely because Andre was relaxing - he was in his home, after all.

“Good evening, Major. Do you mind if I sit?” It was all pleasantry, as Andre was already taking a seat, crossing his legs the same as he had before. Ben himself was standing, leaning towards the hearth. 

He spoke directly to the matter at hand - gentlemen or not, John Andre and he both were military men, and to be direct made a difference in life or death.

It certainly would make a difference here.

“I have reflected upon my life, Major Andre. I won’t see my accomplishments sullied by any treasonous action that may save me from hanging.”

His words hung in the air, and his pulse grew loud in his ears.

Andre merely pursed his lips, looking as if he only half-heard Ben. “I do believe we’ll have to change that. There will be no spy that hangs under my authority.”

Ben’s chest clenched, and he turned to properly face the Major. “Do you recall the case of Nathan Hale?” Less civil than before, his anger was directed at Andre himself. 

Andre spoke carefully. “You must know that I was not even in intelligence at the time of Hale-”

“It matters not, sir! If my being out of uniform constitutes enough to be held here, then I am expecting to be executed for espionage. And like Captain Hale, I will meet my death with resolve.” Ben wanted to  _ mean _ his words, wanted that same demeanor of calm that Providence bestowed upon his friend at the last moments of his life. Yet there were tasks uncompleted, words left unsaid that he would regret. He would not regret dying for his country - only that he might have been able to do  _ more. _

John Andre was looking at him in displeasure, and produced some papers from his jacket, not uttering a word as he did.

“I’ll be wanting your signature, Major Tallmadge. I’ll call my servant, Abigail, down for quill and ink.”

He was ignoring Benjamin’s simmering rage, at the unfairness Nathan Hale (who had been more half his soul than his simply his friend) faced, at his own capture, and Andre turning a cheek at that rage only served to inflame it.

“You’re saying you  _ don’t _ want to hang me, Major? I cannot think of a situation where we wouldn’t hang a spy of your own-”

“That’s rather the point, isn’t it?” Andre finally snapped, showing his irritation. He remained seated, but it did not change anything about how he was now revealing himself. “The Continental Army - the rebels and the Americans who deem themselves Patriots, claim to be victims of  _ injustice _ , slaves to an unfair Parliament and monarch. Yet Tory women are raped, Tory farms are ransacked and burned, British soldiers aren’t given proper burial by their fellow man. Mobs of citizens are ready to tear apart family carriages in protest!” Andre was raising his voice, and he stopped himself from further doing so, returning to his familiar speech. “It is not that I believe every transgression be matched. I do not believe my men to be superior to yours, however much you may think otherwise about your own. I am sorry that your  _ friend _ was sent to the gallows, but I  _ cannot _ , in good conscious, attempt to show respect and honor in the midst of this godforsaken war by hanging a good man.”

Ben could not speak, the speech a strike to his pride. He could not say anything, lest he sound as young as he knew himself to appear. He turned from him, anger smoldering still, but shame filling his eyes with emotion. 

Major Andre was not taking his leave, though. Instead, Ben heard him go to the door and instruct an ensign to ask Abigail for quill and ink. When the door shut, Ben let out a breath, and wiped his face.

“You are stubborn to a fault, Major Tallmadge.” Andre’s cadence fell back into gentler tones, though his irritation was still felt.

“And you, sir,” Replied Ben more hoarsely than he wished, “Are a self-righteous arse.”

His rival laughed, and it wasn’t obscenely charming or at all what Ben expected, but a hearty sound, much like Caleb’s. “I do believe I pointed out how much of a self-righteous arse  _ you _ were, but it’s not the worst that anyone has called me.”

Ben let the crackle of the fire fill a momentary lapse in conversation, controlling how much emotion showed on his face. He cleared his throat, and turned to his captor. Andre was standing with his arms behind his back, almost statuesque save for his eyes, and the twitch of his near constant smirk.

“Will you answer a question, Major Tallmadge?” The British officer asked, humor coloring his words. Ben set his jaw.

“I’ll hear your inquiry, but I won’t guarantee an answer.”

That seemed to please the man enough, and Andre stepped forward, causing Ben to instinctively step back, nearly against the hearth. He wished for that pathetic dinner knife.

“Why is it you have not made to harm me, yet?”

Tension grew in the air, making the fire’s warmth uncomfortable. Benjamin cast his eyes down, knowing it was cruel to think Abigail would betray what had passed earlier. He had an opportunity to maim John Andre before then, could have turned the knife that released his binds on its owner. Instead he had stayed such impulses.

He did answer, however, and as honestly as he could. “It would not be a fair fight, Major Andre. You have half a city under your command. I wouldn’t make it past the threshold.” Yet he had been planning on trying the fight, had been coming up with a shallow plan of incapacitating Andre, the ensigns, too, and stealing away into the city to find a horse. It was a plot destined to die in its infancy, born out of exhaustion and desperation.

Andre did not advance upon him, nor retreat. Instead he shrugged, “Numbers would not discourage a will like yours, Major. I thank you for your cooperation and behavior, however.”

He would not be thanking Ben had he that blade protruding out of his side.

“It’s not often I cooperate,” Ben said, remembering all too well the times his superiors cast their eyes at him in disapproval. “It’s a passing affliction.” He spoke lightly, finding some humor there and relief let him breathe more easy when Andre chuckled again.

A creak of the door opening revealed Abigail, and her eyes searched the two men carefully, even with Andre seemingly unaware of the true friction there. The Major greeted her warmly. 

“Ah, thank you, Abigail. I’ll bring them up once I finish.” He took the quill and ink from her hands, giving her an affectionate smile that hinted at a friendship between the two.

Ben felt a villain looking upon that, knowing it was, in part, a facade created by the Culper Ring.

“Major Andre,” Abigail parted from him with a nod, and gave Ben a quick glance over.

“So,” Andre spoke, his back to him as he set the ink down at the table once they were alone again. “Your signature, Major Tallmadge?” He turned to hold out the quill, and Ben didn’t hesitate to join him at the table.

“You may read over the letter, if you wish,” Andre offered, standing back as Ben took the quill from him. 

Eyes searched over the clean, elegant lines of writing. John Andre had a steady and learned hand, and his letters were worded much like his manner of speech. Addressed directly to Washington,  Andre gave a brief account of Gamble’s, and proposed diplomatic terms for Major Tallmadge’s exchange.  _ Let us conduct ourselves as equals, Your Excellency. _

In closing, Major Andre wrote:  _ I give my word of Major Tallmadge’s person, having been unharmed in my custody and will remain so. _ It was underneath that Ben placed his signature, cramped compared to Andre’s script. He set down the quill.

Enmity forgotten, Andre held out his hand. “Thank you, Major Tallmadge. It will be sent out this very evening,”

With hesitance, Ben shook his hand, a short, firm grip. Andre took up the letter, but seemed to think better of bringing up the quill and ink. 

“Perhaps I will procure you some paper, Major Tallmadge? Time will have to pass in some manner.”

Ben was surprised, yet keeping record of his imprisonment appealed to him. Once he returned to camp, be it from exchange or escape, there could be something of use from it. “Thank you, sir. It would be a welcome distraction.”

Andre had a glint in his eye, and nodded. “There will be a cot for you, as well, though that will come tomorrow. I apologize for the state you’ll be sleeping in tonight.” He opened the door, the reds standing to attention at his appearance.

Sleeping on a straw covered floor was more agreeable than horseback or cart. “You’ve done too much already, Major Andre.”  _ And I have not done enough. _

Reverend Worthington’s cross weighed heavy in his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As said in my tags, I'm trying to mash together the timeline of the show and the accurate timeline of the Revolution. Some things will end up differing in any show-related plotlines: because obviously, Ben's capture would have repercussions. Some will be kept. All of this is early warning, but I thought I'd let my readers know for future chapters!


	3. III.

There came a time in every man’s life where he would question the existence of God.

Reverend Tallmadge had raised his son to harbor a healthy fear of Providence, to know that whatever happened to him was part of a greater plan. Ben had learned to heed fate’s call long before the war. In war, though, fate proved fickle, and now it was obvious God cared little for the role Ben was to play in His plans.

He had slept well enough for a few hours, before that cross began to wear at his mind. Owned by a supposed man of God… only for that Christian man to turn Judas. What had been the pieces of silver there? What had turned a priest?

The fire was only embers in the late night hours, but Benjamin still decided to set the cross there, watching the leather cord curdle and burn. The cross would only warp and tarnish, yet the action remained clear.

Providence had abandoned him, and perhaps it had abandoned this war entirely. In stranding Benjamin amidst the fight for independence, he only saw it fitting to abandon Providence.

The good will of man was the only thing left to the Americans. It was only by a man’s good will that Ben was not being interrogated with violence, that Ben was not already dead.

What plagued Ben was the question if he would have done the same for John Andre. He did not return to his sleep as well as before.

The morning brought him a stiff neck and a temptation to abandon any air of propriety simply to beat down the guard that pounded at his door. He swore his way awake to get them to stop, only to blush when Abigail was let in.

“Apologies,” He said, rising up enough to see that his breakfast had been brought. He remained on the straw, though, trying to rouse his senses fully.

Abigail was cleaning out the hearth’s ashes, and found the mangled icon. She looked towards Ben. “Will you be wanting this, sir?”

His eyes darkened. “I’ll not be needing it.”

Her gaze was full of questions, and Ben felt pressured under her eyes. Abigail slipped the cross into her apron, finishing her task. “Your breakfast is still warm, Major Tallmadge. I’ll be back for the tray.” She passed him with unease, before looking down to address him.

“Major André’s been meeting with the man who brought you in,” She spoke under her breath. “I think they’ve been arguing.” Abigail jumped when the door was pushed wider.

“Woman, I’m sure the Major doesn’t want you flirting with a rebel. Hurry along.” There had been a change in guard from yesterday, Ben noted. This ensign was taller and had a certain look about him that Ben unfortunately recognized. Bored soldiers did not bode well. He leered after Abigail, and turned to the prisoner, giving Ben a wide smile.

“Lucky _you_ , ol’ Georgie’s boy - you’ll get to set up the cot Major Andre’s having brought in.” He watched Ben as the latter was taking his seat for breakfast, and kicked at the table’s legs simply to jostle around the dishes. Having apparently sated his want for fun, the bloodyback let Ben be, speaking to the ensign outside the doorway of _Holy Ground_ , which Ben quickly realized was some sort of brothel street. He finished his porridge in awkward silence, having never found himself comfortable with that manner of soldier’s talk. Oh, he’d laugh at jokes - Caleb had the best of them - but to hear men speak of women in such a way uneased him.

Perhaps it was Anna in their youth that had influenced this way of thinking. Perhaps, irrationally, he feared that same Anna would come knock him around as she did when they were children if she ever heard him speak such filth.

Ben’s heart was heavy - he missed Anna, missed Caleb and Abe, as well. To look back and see what they had come from was astonishing. They had each proven themselves, but would young Benjamin look up at him now and see a man worthy of aspiration?

Youth had colored the thought of war in gold and glory - maturity saw in it the greed that drove man, the blood that had to stain the soil of a country that could not even agree in uniting together.

A cot was carried down to him, yet certainly not without its difficulties. A servant boy that Benjamin picked out to be Abigail’s son came clambering down the stairs outside, and the tall guard took the cot from his hands with irritance.

“Sorry, sir-” The boy began, only to be cut off.

“Don’t stand around, boy, just leave.” The ensign shooed him away, and shot Ben a glare. He unceremoniously dropped the cot down on the floor, and Ben stood. The man raised an eyebrow, and gestured towards the ground. “Well, go on. Set up your bed - I’m sure you have experience for it.”

Ben took a few steps forward, keeping some distance between them, but aching to start a scuffle. “Oh, not all of us are given the luxury of city barracks.” The half-smile he wore was challenging. The lobster set his jaw, and moved so quickly Ben’s breath was caught in his throat - the man had grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

“If I wasn’t so sure that rebel neck of yours was to snap under a rope any day now, I’d strangle you myself.”

“ _Johnson_ ,” His peer warned from the doorway, looking every bit as anxious as a child. He was somewhat ignored, though the grip loosened on Ben’s front. Ben shoved him away; warning or no warning, he was hoping for a true fight. He could not assault Major Andre, but an ensign would do well enough for his frustrations.

No move came. Ensign Johnson only spat his way and shut the door behind him. Ben was denied a simple fight - even his own dragoons would take the chance to beat him.

In vexation, Ben kicked the cot away from him, pacing the room twice right after. He looked to the inkwell and quill at the table - John Andre had promised Washington he’d not be harmed. Perhaps this was evidence of his word being kept - the guards could not lay a hand on him.

He hated John Andre with every fiber of his being that moment.

Still, the man kept to his word; Andre coming to see him a little over an hour after Ben had put up his bed. It felt to be early in the day, at least, not yet afternoon to Ben. He had attempted to tell the hour by the light being let in, but it was no use.

“I come bearing gifts,” Andre said in good cheer, a liberal amount of paper in one hand, and came to seat after placing down the paper - right on Ben’s cot.

_How can one manage to look elegant on a camp bed?_ Ben’s mind thought before the more rational side took notice of the darker skin around his eyes. Something was troubling him. “Have you not slept well, Major?”

The man’s countenance flickered, as no one wanted to appear any less than perfectly composed in front of an enemy. He took time in answering, giving in somewhat. “Ah, I’m afraid not. Though _you_ , dear sir, should be sleeping better on _this_.” He gave the cot a pat next to him. “Unfortunately I can’t recall the last I made use of a camp bed.”

Ben smiled. “I can’t recall the last time the Royal Army had need for a camp.”

Andre scoffed, though his grin betrayed him. “Impudence works well for you, Major Tallmadge. Reminds me you’re mortal,” He gave Ben a once over, and raised his eyebrows. “Just as the rest of us.”

Something inside Ben prickled, and he shifted in his seat. “I don’t think of myself as otherwise, much as you may believe I do.” It was an odd feeling, and he wondered if this was anywhere near how Washington felt when even his enemies used the term _demigod_ about him, praise or otherwise.

His opposite hummed, “Youth can bring a sense of invulnerability. I admire your methods as an intelligence officer, Major Tallmadge, but I bore witness to Monmouth. You charge in as if none can touch you.”

Ben grew embarrassed, but he felt the statement not fully true. “I charge in because my men _do_ , and I fight as though I will not see the next day, because some of my men _don’t_ .” His mouth went ahead of his mind, “And to be frank, Major, the methods _you_ use as an intelligence officer should go against your good conscious.” There was no way his cheeks were not colored, and he fought to keep his eyes from straying.

The handsome face of Andre’s grew solemn, and he crossed his legs as a gentleman once more, searching Ben over again as if he were reevaluating his worth. “You must be speaking of the scheme that resulted in Mr. Sackett’s death.”

“Indeed I am, sir. It was your man, though cleverly placed within our camp, that left Mr. Sackett to choke on his own blood.” His own blood ran cold at the memory - Gamble running off with intelligence, Sackett clinging to his last moments in fear, and Washington so in shock that he could not look at Ben, not even as Ben overstepped in anger.

Andre was the one to look ashamed, and that surprised Ben more than anything. “I ordered Lieutenant Gamble to avoid violence at all cost. He was reprimanded for his misconduct, I assure you. It may pale in comparison to your loss, but it is all I have to offer for it. I am sorry.”

Ben was silent, not in anger or spite, but rather in admiration. Yes, he had to admire the man in front of him, and lament in some manner that he boasted red instead of blue. Ben approached the subject of Gamble after a pause. “Gamble did give me to you, sir. I can’t see that you’d be allowed to reprimand him this time.”

Andre’s lips parted, and a different kind of smile broke his features - cold. “I have my share of impudence, Major. I wanted to demote him to captain, but that would give the wrong impression, of course.”

Demote him to captain - Andre took great offense at Ben’s condition. “Do you truly abhor violence that much?” He asked, growing ever more astonished at this man’s character.

The Loyalist gave Ben’s papers a glance, as if Ben would begin taking notes this very moment. He ran a tongue along his cheek before answering. “It is neglect of our fellow man that turns them against us. I am no stranger to killing, but this is not a battlefield.” He gestured to the healing gash on Ben’s face. “Does it pain you?”

Truthfully, Ben had taken little notice of it since cleaning his face. “Ah, no, it doesn’t.” His hand came to touch it, and he looked down for a moment. Andre was… too much to bear. It was hard to think a man of his nature was devoted to a King that didn’t care for the people he claimed to be his. He cleared his throat.

“Is there any news of my fate, Major Andre?” They would have to return to this - nearly a week away from camp, almost two full days in Andre’s custody. Ben could exercise patience when he felt it called for - but he wanted certainty in something. Should he be ordered to be hanged, at the very least it would give him a timeframe to plot, and plot more soundly than he first attempted.

Andre appeared to share the same impatience, though in a different vein. He sighed. “No. For now, General Clinton is content to have you remain in my custody. Though I’m sure he believes you’re cooperating in a more agreeable manner.” He touched on Ben giving up something once more, though at this point he had to realize it was futile.

“Major Andre, I appreciate your generosity, but I will be at peace if I have to die for my country.” Ben stated, still feeling he was lying as he said so.

Andre knew it, too, blue eyes boring through his facade.

“I don’t believe you will, Major Tallmadge.”

He left him.

 

The paper was put to good use. Ben had read through Andre’s behavior to see a clear message: do not take notes. He was no idiot - a certain phrase here or there, a tactic line, and he would have his notes without being caught out. He was not foolish enough to believe he could get away with using the code; undoubtedly these pages would be reviewed, be it by Andre or some other party.

Key intelligence or otherwise, writing did stay the unravelment of Ben’s nerves. He at first copied lines of a certain song, recalling the friend that was felt through its lyrics. _When Pythias languished at my feet, and I believed him true…_

He found that writing of Nathan, be it through ambiguous ballads of love or otherwise, was something he could not stop, and soon Ben found himself recounting tales of their adventures at Yale. There were no coded messages there, simply memories, and he did this until his hand cramped and his eyes could no longer remain dry.

Ben left the ink to dry and laid down on his camp bed, shedding tears behind a hand, and remaining there even when Abigail brought supper.

He ate the meal cold, not truly caring of its state, and once he was alone in his “cell” again he found he could not bear Andre, or any other British officer, reading of Nathan Hale. The fire was low in the afternoon hours, but blazed higher with its newfound kindling.

He wrote no more that day.

When Ben’s dinner was brought down, he gave Abigail a warm smile. “Thank you,”

She blinked in wonder, and frowned. “You’ll not be taking a knife again-“ Ben shook his head.

“No, I won’t be. As you said, Major Andre is a kind man. Why not use that against him?” Hurried, hushed tones was all they could manage.

Even with Abigail’s fondness for her employer, she understood, and nodded. “He did send something for you. Cicero will be down later.”

Ensign Johnson loudly cleared his throat. Abigail gave the appearance of using a dinner knife against a red, herself. Yet she averted her eyes and bade Major Tallmadge good night.

He took his dinner in thought, embarrassed and feeling treated like a pet or a young child. _Give him a washbasin, don’t hurt him, let me bring him gifts and treats._

Kindness and condescension. Andre, true to Ben’s earlier assessments, could be a self-righteous _arse_. Instead of any unease churning in his stomach, he was only pleased that it could be used against the Major.

‘Cicero’ turned out to be the boy that had so dutifully tried to bring down his cot, earlier. Ben wondered if he truly was the sole reason Abigail took so much risk - for her son.

“Major Andre thought’d you’d be appreciating this, sir, and that I might have to help you.”

Benjamin raised an eyebrow, tilting his head in curiosity. “What was it that he brought me?”

Cicero placed the parcel at his cot, beginning to untie it. “A set of clothes, sir. And a nightshirt.”

His skin broke out in gooseflesh - it was well, to indeed be treated like a guest, but this was…

The clothes on his back were filthy, stained with sweat and dirt, torn in places and a bloodstained collar at his shirt was a memorial of Gamble’s actions. Whatever pride Ben still had, he swallowed.

“Alright, then. We’ll try them on.”

They were plain, the pants a darker red that Ben found he could cope with, the shirt and its waistcoat a cream color, and a deep brown coat. The pants did not fit well, and the shirt was tight around his shoulders, but it was a fine outfit all the same.

It felt utterly wrong against his skin, and even with Cicero’s compliments he quickly wished for it to be off. As for the nightshirt, it was welcome enough. Ben slipped it over his head with ease while Cicero folded up his new garments in a chair, and gathered the clothes Ben was brought in.

“Thank you, Cicero.” He offered, and the bright smile he got in return settled his nerves somewhat.

“You’re most welcome, Major Tallmadge! It was an honor,” Awkwardly, the boy took a deep bow before leaving.

Ben settled on the cot - no bedclothes or pillow - and gave a sigh of relief. His back was sore, and even with the complaints of a camp bed, there was no better way to sleep for it.

Cautiously, he treaded off to sleep, suspecting of every noise outside his door, til all was quiet.

He could not recall entirely what had made up his dreams, the next day, but they were colored with dread and swinging nooses. Tree branches blossoming bodies instead of spring flowers, and the clearest image of all was a blindfolded man, wearing the rank of Major on his Continental uniform, swinging from his neck while a hymn played over, a hymn Ben could not _remember_ , could not _place_.

It was no wonder at all that he was tired as he dressed, the stockings and boots giving an odd look. He did his best to arrange his hair in its usual queue.

After breakfast, Ben set again to writing - but nothing of Nathan. He’d decided he _would_ have his notes on his imprisonment, and he’d mask them in a letter to none other than Anna. Andre would see it and assume a romance, and be it through exchange or escape, Ben would keep his false love letters.

It was terribly difficult, though, pretending to write to Anna as a suitor. He found that ardent praise was strange when thinking of a woman who was, in all manners save one, more his older sister. But he wrote his ‘darling’ for a few pages more, content with the hidden meanings, embarrassed by their delivery.

There was a disagreement outside - he could hear Abigail’s steadfast, calm voice over a more male irritation. The door opened just as Ben was putting his missive into order.

A guard change again - but the same as the first day Ben was brought here. Major Andre was not having too many know of where Washington’s Major was being kept. Abigail stepped in, and bowed her head in greeting.

“Major Andre thought you could use a shave, sir.” She beckoned someone to come in, and Ben wasn’t surprised to see Cicero. A towel over his shoulder and a basin of warm water, it appeared the boy was assigned the task.

An inexperienced boy with a razor close to his face set Ben more on edge than anything. Did it speak at all of Andre’s trust of him, though, to be allowed near such a blade?

That question was met with the man himself.

Andre was not in any official wear other than his waistcoat, and Ben was having difficulty overlooking that. “Good morning, Major.” Andre greeted, searching for the second chair and finding a good place for it.

Affronted and confused, Ben replied a tad hotly. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Andre shrugged, completely at ease. “I thought it time for Cicero to learn how properly to shave a man. Of course, since you are such a danger,” His mouth turned up to tease, “I couldn’t leave him and Abigail alone.”

Ben glanced over towards Abigail, as if she may bring balance to this chaos. She boldly rolled her eyes, just out of sight from Andre. “It is nothing, sir. I’ve had to shave Mister Strong back in Setauket before.”

So it took a boy, a woman and a Major to shave Ben’s face. Alright. He sent a hard look towards Andre. “Am I to be restrained at all? You wouldn’t want me to get a blade, I think.”

The look Andre returned made Ben feel overly aware of his surroundings. He didn’t quite know what Andre meant by it - as if Ben was something to eat. The Major stood. “I’ll trust you to an extent, sir. Now, Cicero, let’s ready the lather.”

Ben was made to sit completely still in the middle of the room, Cicero in front of him, Andre instructing at his side, and Abigail watching close by. He had to have his shirt loosened in order to lather down his neck, and Andre’s fingers lightly brushed against his skin.

He felt his pulse quicken, and silently thanked Cicero for already covering his face.

The first pass of the blade made him flinch. “Forgive him, Cicero, it’s no fault of yours. Although,” Andre shifted the handle in the boy’s hand, and guided the next pass, “Keep the angle more like this, and never press too hard.”

Ben could not keep his eyes on one person or another. He did find them straying to Abigail, almost pleading. She shook her head - what for, he couldn’t rightly say. But it was enough that he stopped fighting to relax, and Cicero only knicked him once on his right side.

“Now, unfortunately, I think I’ll have to take over.” Andre said, holding out his hand for the razor blade, and the towel to wipe it off on. Ben bit his tongue - this was demeaning, being shaven by his own warden. He was not going to be uncivil, not with Andre having moved his own chair near him, and a mere movement away from slitting his throat.

“Major Tallmadge, I’m going to do my best to shave around your cut. Cicero, keep paying attention.” And Andre’s touch was on him again, moving his face to the side, his thumb right under his chin.

Ben was holding his breath. Agonizingly, Andre drew the razor down, over his jaw, and said something again about the press of the blade against a man’s jaw. Ben truly couldn’t comprehend it - he was a rabbit being preened by a snake, his pulse a mad tattoo.

Andre worked even slower around where Gamble had made his mark, the scab still too new to do anything else. Ben could feel that it aggravated his skin, but the wound did not reopen.

An eternity later, Andre was finished. He took care to inspect Ben’s face, though thankfully, he only asked Ben to turn side to side. “There now,” His voice was lower than usual, and Ben paid little attention to Cicero wiping away any excess cream.

The ordeal done, Ben let out a breath, and absently ran his hand over his chin. Well, it had been… an experience, for all parties involved. He cleared his throat, addressing the boy. “Thank you, Cicero. You did a fine job.”

He heard rather than saw Andre chuckle. “He certainly did. Cicero, I may ask your assistance myself come tomorrow.”

The boy was like any other youth when it came to praise. He grinned, and nodded. “Thank you, sir, and you too, Major Tallmadge.” He gave his mother a glance, and she must have given him her silent approval because he went off in good spirits, taking the basin, towel, and razor with him.

Abigail gave Ben her inspection too. “Sorry for the cut, sir.” She spoke of the knick Cicero had given him. He shook his head.

“Think nothing of it, please. He did well,” Ben only wished that Cicero did all of it, instead of Andre putting a hand on him, having him pliant and still under a blade’s edge. He could not yet look at the man, for it brought mixed emotions, and he was gradually being worn down enough by his own stress as it was.

He snapped as soon as Andre had Abigail leave to ready his sitting room for a visitor.

“Why is it I’m in your house?”

Startled, Andre’s eyebrows were raised, and he took the time to roll down his sleeves while he concocted a satisfactory answer. “You wouldn’t find any other accommodations quite as pleasant.” He replied, smooth as ever, and Ben’s hands clenched, getting up from his seat.

“That isn’t it, and I won’t be talked to as a child, Major, no matter how much my youth drives whatever passions you so admire in me.” He was rambling, still feeling the brush of Andre’s touch against him, and it was driving him mad, fanning his temper.

He was not three steps away from John Andre, and the man could only look at him like a curiosity. “I do admire your passions, Major Tallmadge,” Andre said, that lower tone to his voice again. “It is why I won’t allow you to be held in City Hall, or some inhumane prison. And there would be no greater pleasure for me than to speak to you as a man, believe that.”

Ben held firm, but could not stop himself from feeling overwhelmed. “Sir, I feel I am beginning to fray at my nerves. If it is an interrogation your Generals want, then I am willing to meet with them-”

“That is something you would regret. My superiors will be patient for a few weeks, but they’ll want you dead unless the exchange proves necessary.” John Andre finished with his cuffs, and was buttoning up his waistcoat. “And it will. I cannot actually promise General Washington anything, but I can say that you will be returned to him.”

“And what are you looking to gain out of this exchange?” Ben inquired, seeing no benefit on Andre’s side. The Major smiled.

“Oh, just prisoners of war. Perhaps forced trade - and anything that you may give over.” Andre spoke. Was it his kindness he was counting on to have Ben betray his country?

He finished giving his waistcoat the proper care, and took a step nearer to Ben. “How many men of ours do you think His Excellency is willing to give up for you?” Rather than have his eyes on Ben’s, they roamed his freshly shaven skin, down to his neck.

Ben shook his head, trying to clear it. “I don’t believe your Generals kind enough to be willing to trade any amount for me.”

Andre’s eyes returned to his, and Ben’s mouth went dry. “They aren’t, but I think they’ll learn to live with it. Now,” He broke whatever spell he placed on his rival by stepping away, and Ben closed his eyes in relief. “I have a most unfortunate guest to deal with, and I would be loathe to keep him in the house for any longer than needed.”

Immediately thinking of Robert Rogers, Ben felt a degree of pity for John Andre. “I’m guessing I’ll still be the subject of conversation.”

Andre smiled. “You guess correctly. He’ll be Hell bent on coming down here and all but skinning you alive for Culper’s identity - rather obsessed with it, I hear.”

Ben’s chest went tight, his blood running chill. Abe had given word on the Queen’s Ranger and his rampage, yet…

“Major Andre,” He started, controlling the dread in his voice. “Would this be Lieutenant Simcoe?”

Andre sighed, and gave his fears reason. “The very one, I’m afraid. A man for battle, but not much else.”

Providence cared nothing for Benjamin Tallmadge.

 

He could not rest, or write, or do anything other than picture Simcoe taking tea with John Andre upstairs. _Simcoe_ , a man so _inhuman_ that he was appropriately demonized by both armies.

Ben controlled his anxieties - if he was to find himself being questioned by a bloodthirsty Ranger, he would need to give no inclination towards anything. He could lie, in most instances, but that did not mean it wouldn’t require a great deal of effort for him.

If he was not being tormented so by God, he might have devoted some time to prayer. He only wished that there was such a thing as divine intervention - obviously, there was not.

In lamenting the death of what God he knew, Ben heard a door slam open.

“Move out of the way - I am a Lieutenant and you will yield to me.”

Ben scarcely had enough time to distance himself, across the room, before Simcoe opened his door and leisurely walked in, as if it were a common visit.

He wore Ranger green and no wig - as he had at Monmouth, and still held that same look in his eyes, showing no empathy. Ben swallowed.

“Good to see you, Major. I was hoping I’d capture you myself, someday, but it appears I was beaten to it.”

There was no respect here. “It appears so. Tell me, how fares Setauket?”

Hunters often harbored a steel focus, and Ben felt a fox cornered by a bloodhound with how Simcoe took him in. “I’m having to defend her, actually, from a dear old friend.” His voice went up in volume, yet still revealing no emotion, an empty cavern instead. “Robert Rogers? You two are well acquainted.”

Stepping to one side, Ben peered at him in confusion. “Rogers? I believed him to be-“

There were heavy footsteps coming down, the sound of muskets rattling in their holds-

“Do not try to lie to me, Major! I was set up for ambush by that man, and it leaves me to conclude that he’s your-“

“Lieutenant Simcoe!” Andre was in a rare state - rage altering his beauty into something darker. In his proper uniform he was indeed an enemy fitting for due respect. “I gave you no command to come down here, and yet you still find it in yourself to be _insubordinate_ .” He was a sight to behold, blue eyes afire and his carriage that of a man prepared for the worst. “Do not,” Andre spoke carefully, stepping towards the Ranger. The men at the door had their hands on their firearms. “Forget who _gave_ you your position on a silver platter.”

Ben’s eyes went to the pistol at Simcoe’s side, though he kept his distance. He’d fare better in a physical fight, he felt, but he was tempted. Simcoe shook with his own anger, and yet his voice kept that overly gentle cadence. “You are not making use of your prisoner, Major. The rebel Head of Intelligence is kept in your basement, and you still don’t know anything. It would be my advice to-”

“Don’t overstep your rank, sir! You are a fool to believe I would let you interrogate Major Tallmadge because of your run-in with Rogers. Diplomacy will be had here, and it requires patience.” Andre was now face to face with Simcoe, leaving Ben to be all but forgotten just a few paces behind the true enemy.

He gave in to impulse, and surged forward.

Simcoe caught his wrist as Ben yanked at the pistol, twisting his arm, making Ben cry out in pain. Andre reacted immediately, latching his hands in the man’s uniform. “Yield, Simcoe! I’ll not have-”

The pistol went off, and Simcoe slammed Ben’s side against the wall, letting him drop to the floor. His wrist, his whole arm, was in pain, and the white demon had wrenched free his weapon.

“Diplomacy, indeed, Major.” Simcoe said stiffly, taking a breath. Ben glared at him.

“It would be a _mercy_  to shoot you,” He started, before Andre interrupted.

“That’s enough. Lieutenant, leave.” John Andre was breathing with exertion, trying to maintain his temperament. The look he gave Ben was disheartening, and Ben immediately looked down, seeing a splintered hole in the floor where the bullet made landing. Neither his wrist or his arm could be permanently hurt, but his wrist ached fiercely, and he was shamed once more for his pathetic actions.

Simcoe relented, and thanked the Major for having allowed him in his home. The press of men moved aside in his wake, and Ben knew he’d not seen the last of him. He dared to look at Andre.

The man was pinching the bridge of his nose, his other hand at his hip. Ben took a few shaky breaths - this was the fall, he’d finally pushed the moral man over the edge-

Andre turned, directing his attention to the guards at the door. “Get my servant, and once she’s here, you will leave us in peace.” There was no room for any disagreement in his voice, and one ensign nodded, the others following in his stead.

The room remained silent saved for the men’s breathing; Ben, unevenly and shallow from having the wind knocked out of his lungs, and Andre’s, deep andlevel as to remind himself who he was, what he claimed to stand for.

“You idiot,” Andre spoke through his teeth, turning toward him. “Simcoe is a rabid dog, he’d leap at any chance to tear you apart.”

He flared, “I had do _something_ , anything to-”

“Get out of here?” Andre finished for him, and there was his cold gaze on Ben. He had knelt down beside him. “I realize you want to return to your General, to your war, but the only chance you have of doing so without killing yourself is through _me._ ”

A woman cleared her throat. Ben turned his eyes at the door, holding his wrist. Abigail must have been told something of the situation, because she carried a spool for bandaging. Andre huffed, and stood.

“Abigail, I trust you will take care of Major Tallmadge. And you, Major,” Andre looked down at him. “I will see you tomorrow.” There would be a mess of things, Ben knew, and kept his eyes on Andre’s red back as he retreated.

Abigail took Andre’s place, kneeling beside him. “Your wrist,” She asked, and spoke no more, not even when Ben cried out when she had to apply pressure in wrapping it. She secured the fix with a sewing pin. “There now, don’t be laying on it at night. It should heal within a few weeks.”

A few weeks. Ben shook his head, eyes red from his physical ailments and the constant stress he seemed to weigh himself down with. “I suppose I’ll still be here.”

Abigail spoke freshly as she stood. “I suppose you will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics Ben wrote because they reminded him of Nathan are originally 'When Damon languished at my feet, and I believed him true," from "Song to the Same Air" (From a collection of 18th century songs I found online). But since Ben was Damon to Nathan's Pythias, I obviously had to change it. 
> 
> How about that fan service with the shaving? I apologize - I hope it's in character enough. Next few chapters are going to be more difficult to work on, research wise, but I love and appreciate feedback!


	4. IV.

Washington’s reply came the sixth day Benjamin had been under Major Andre’s watch. Of course, he did not known of it until after morning.

Ben had found himself in a routine - he was both driven mad and made sane by it. There would be breakfast, the arrival of which signaled him to be dressed, which he would complete himself. Afterwards he’d set to writing, carefully as to not hurt his sprained wrist. Ben attempted to rile up the ensigns, but apart from mutual disgust and insults, could do nothing more. Abigail and Cicero became familiar faces. He might receive a visit from Andre near or after supper, and always after dinner.

Andre had caught him the night before in his nightshirt, and though nothing was said of it, Ben was… restless about being in such a state.

Speaking to Andre was a restless task in itself. The Simcoe incident was neither forgotten or forgiven (Andre had pointedly scuffed his boot over the bullet hole the day after), but their conversations did not turn hostile. In fact, as each man grew weary of the circular path  _ execution _ or  _ no execution _ took, their conversations widened in range and depth. Ben took delight in speaking to Andre over literature, though he preferred the classics of Greece over the Major’s beloved Shakespeare.

( _ “It speaks of your character, Major Tallmadge.” Andre had started, meaning to tease. “You have the heart and soul of a tragic hero.” The firelight gave his face a warm coloring, nearly inviting. _

_ Ben knew his Hamlet well, though, and was forward in his reading of Andre. “And what might Shakespeare speak of you, sir? His comedies are grand, but his tragedies even more so with the focus on human faults. You are afraid of your faults being laid at your feet.” _

_ Andre gave no reply, quieting and then simply moving on to philosophy. _ )

He accepted a loan of Shakespeare’s plays, however - grateful for a way to pass time. 

In their talks, Andre gave him a clearer image of the man he was to ultimately clash with. Sciences and the arts were dear to him; he possessed the deepest affections for the latter that Ben could not fully grasp.

Whether or not he could truly understand his rival, Ben took to writing down their conversations, formalities masking any underlying emotion. Perhaps, in a different world than one that had turned upside down in Lexington, they could have entertained a true acquaintance. 

Perhaps, but the world  _ did _ change in Lexington and Concord, and Ben, humility aside, knew he was a part of it. He could not have amity with Major Andre, who, simply by believing in a King’s rule, acted a blockade to that needed change.

The sun was high in the afternoon when Ben was summoned up. Ensign Knox, the younger faced guard, opened his door in the midst of his habitual writing.

“Get up, the Major’ll be seeing you upstairs.”

Ben rose, his chest irrationally soaring at the mere idea of  _ upstairs _ . It meant more exits, more opportunity -

_ No, _ he thought. _ This only means Andre is placing some amount of trust in me. _ He had gained Andre’s favor: with some patience, trust would be given to him in full. Benjamin would then turn that against him.

If he felt guilty for an action he’d not yet taken, Ben buried it.

He was halted at the doorway by the other guard - Knox tutted through his teeth. “Hands behind your back - won’t be taking any chances.” A handkerchief was produced, and contempt simmered in Ben’s gaze back at him. He did as requested, and was lead up from the basement in his binding.

Such contempt expanded once he set eyes on Andre’s house. It was true that Washington and his aides resided in a house, instead of tents or crude cabins, but Washington’s headquarters were incomparable to this. Ben’s patriotic spirit flared, revolted at the fact that Andre, and officers like him, lived in comfort while the Continental Army was all but naked to Nature and her vicious temperament.

He could hate the man in moments like this, and would hate him when the time came.

Ensign Knox lead him near what Ben guessed to be the front of the townhouse. Abigail paused in the hall as they passed; she gave him a discreet nod of the head, leading Ben to believe that there was good to come of this. 

He was stopped in front of a door, and the ensign knocked for him.

“Send him in,” Andre’s voice came through, and Knox turned the knob, pushing Ben through with a slight shove to his back. 

The first Ben saw of Andre was his frown. “Restraints are only necessary through an order of mine, Ensign.” He had been looking over a letter at a desk, and stood, striding over to Ben. He untied the simple cloth and tossed it back. Ben flexed his hands, wincing at the ache of his wrist. Writing, however carefully he attempted, was not the most intelligent way to go about healing a sprain, but Ben would suffer through.

He shifted, uncomfortable and still insulted by Andre’s accommodations, and recognized a broken seal on an envelope to be that of the General’s - Washington. Now his heart did soar, and he allowed it to. Washington would have a sound approach to Ben’s capture, he was sure of it. Though he fought with his commander and harbored valid frustrations with him, he loved the man as he would his own father, and above that sentiment Ben respected Washington as a leader.

On the edge of Andre’s desk lay an open book, turned to an image of a beautiful woman, her hair down and her gaze intimate. He flushed - Andre had said something of his hobby of sketching from life, and Ben felt odd peering at a drawing of one of his lovers. 

The man returned to his desk, pushing aside his sketchbook among a few other papers. “Care for a drink, Major Tallmadge?” He gestured to a side table where a few crystal glasses sat on a tray, along with a bottle.

Ben nodded, deciding to smile as he might with a friend. “Only if you join me.”

Andre returned his smile, taking a proper seat. “Of course, though I’ll pour. I feel we have a little to celebrate.”

Ben wondered if that meant the letter contained the best of news. He went to grab the decanter and two glasses, holding them both in one hand. Congress had given the general - and the entire army - grief about the business of prisoner exchange earlier in the year, and Washington never truly forgave them for placing monetary concern above American lives. 

The bottle was set on Andre’s desk, the glasses tinkling as Ben set them down. As Andre uncorked the drink, he nodded towards the chair opposite. “You may have a seat, if you’d like.”

Ben thanked him, and took his glass with a stray thought of  _ perhaps if you had poison _ . Andre deserved better; a Loyalist though he was, Ben found it would be a sad affair if John Andre didn’t survive the war.

Andre raised his eyebrows and cocked his head at Ben just as he was going for a drink. “No toast, sir?” He quipped, and Ben blushed.

“Ah, to…” He searched for common ground. “Diplomacy?” He offered, raising his glass. 

“Diplomacy.” Andre tapped the side of Ben’s crystal with his own, and knocked back nearly its entire contents. Ben swallowed only a sip, deciding that sobriety was indeed not a virtue of the Major’s.

Andre let out a sigh once finished, setting down his glass, and picked up Washington’s reply. “Your General is a fine man, Major Tallmadge. He brings up little concern for the way we shall proceed with your exchange.”

“Not even from Congress?” Ben asked, still holding his drink in his hand. It had been no secret that Congress greatly rendered regular prisoner exchanges with the British nearly useless - even the British General Howe had condemned the way the talks went. 

His rival gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “It appears to me General Washington plans on personally negotiating for your release.” He held out the letter. “See for yourself.”

What came of this set a fire in Ben - he could recognize the script of the General’s aides, knew Laurens’ hand well and Hamilton’s more so. Yet this letter had not been dictated and transcribed; it was written by Washington himself.

_ Officer for Officer were the terms once agreed upon by myself and the former commander Lord Howe. Respecting the same terms is what I believe will carry these proceedings out in a manner Admirable to us both. _ The pride in his general could not be contained, and a smile rested on Ben’s face.  _ I give my Thanks for the reassurance of Major Tallmadge’s person, and duly expect your good word to remain intact throughout negotiations _ . 

The offer, however, boiled down to the release of a few captains and a major. To Ben, who saw General Clinton and Cornwallis as shallow, base men, it did not seem enticing enough for them. Why then, did Andre think the case settled? To capture or kill a favorite officer of Washington’s had been an obvious scheme the Royal Army tried to put to use before, mainly with any campaign involving Marquis de Lafayette. To have Ben within their custody, as a close man to Washington and the Head of Intelligence, no less, there was no foreseeable outcome where Andre’s superiors would agree to the exchange.

Ben cleared his throat, setting down his general’s letter and the glass both, taking a seat. “I cannot see the exchange working in British favor, sir. I don’t believe General Clinton will consent to it.”

Andre’s mouth twitched, and he shrugged. “You don’t know him as I do, Major. General Washington’s offer pleases me - I believe it will please General Clinton, as well.” His hand slid the reply back towards him, and then opened a drawer for fresh paper. Ben placed no faith in Andre’s ardent idea that the exchange outweighed his fate at the noose.

“There is one thing I ask of you, though you and I know well it is no request.” Andre started, straightening his stationery in front of him, shifting his inkwell to a comfortable distance. Anxiety set in Ben’s nerves, and his hands clenched; he clasped them together to set order to his mind.

“I suppose I’ll be questioned?” There was no mistake of it; Ben had been preparing for this event, knowing it had to come in time. He quite honestly welcomed an interrogation, because it meant something was  _ happening _ , and he had not been caught in a standstill of time. 

His rival nodded, dipping the quill in ink, and dating the paper in front of him. He replied as he wrote out the context of this meeting. “I’ve already taken Lieutenant Gamble’s account of your capture, but you’ll answer to the question of how you came to… meet him.” Andre’s eyes peered up at Ben a moment, before casting his gaze back down.

Ben swallowed, his pulse already quickening.

“Your rank?”

As if Andre did not already know. “Major in the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons. Head of Intelligence to General George Washington.”

The scratch of quill on paper. “What lead to your shooting of the Reverend Joseph Worthington on September the seventeenth?” Andre’s voice took an edge to it - he had again placed a man cleverly disguised within the Continental camp, and took offense at the robbery of such an asset.

Ben took offense to the corruption of a man of God.

“My suspicions of his loyalty had been raised, and once brought to the General’s attention, I was ordered to dispose of the breech in a quiet manner.”

Major Andre wrote down his reply with a bit of control behind it, Ben noticed. The man was holding something back of his temperament. He knew, between the lines, that Ben was hiding the fact that his contact in this very city had given him the intelligence.

His next question brought back Benjamin’s contempt for each and every bloodyback stationed  _ wrongly _ within the country.

“You did so out of uniform, is that correct?”

Tersely, Ben nodded, his thumbs tapping together. “I did so to follow Reverend Worthington without his notice, that is the truth of the matter. It was he that was conducting espionage, as I came to learn.” His voice, too, had taken on a hard tone.

Andre checked over his drying ink, and raised his head. “You knew the risks of being out of uniform, sir. Had you no awareness of being past enemy lines?”

In all honesty, Ben hadn’t taken notice, nor could he, really. He had followed the reverend with a burning in his chest, wishing that, for a single occurrence, Townsend was wrong. He was angered when he had confronted Worthington, and that was why he had taken his shot so abruptly.

“No, Major Andre. I did not. I simply followed the reverend, and once my fears were confirmed through the man dropping information for Lieutenant Gamble, I reacted.”

Andre’s brow was furrowed, and he set aside his first page to dry. Cautiously, Ben glanced at the crystal decanter, tallying his chances of escape were he to use it at the side of Andre’s skull. His teeth set together, and he took a breath. Impulse had lead to nothing but an injured wrist.

Major Andre dipped his quill again. “Your suspicions of Reverend Worthington were raised through contact from your agent in York City, I presume?” He met Benjamin’s gaze.

Ben was steady in his reply. “My suspicions were raised through inconsistencies in the reverend’s behavior.”

Andre frowned. “You deny the existence of such an agent in New York?”

He did not give the question recognition. “I deny that I was captured according to protocol, as I stated to Lieutenant Gamble my rank in the Continental Army. My capture, and imprisonment in your household, are illegal in my eyes.” Ben’s heart pounded, and the tip of Andre’s quill broke at the pressure placed upon it.

Informally, the Major spoke curtly. “Rebellion is illegal as well, yet here we each sit because of it.” He thinly smiled, no kindness behind it. He set down his broken quill, searching in his desk for another. Ben retorted.

“As is the infringement of my worldly rights, sir.”

Andre was silent, adjusting in his chair. That glimpse of his rage Ben saw in his dealing with Simcoe was writ in his features again, and it added to Ben’s anxieties yet captured his fascination. John Andre spoke civil, though, after adding to his report.

“I won’t say that your capture has not benefited me in any manner, Major Tallmadge, nor will I say that your capture was the most agreeable situation to my beliefs. Yet I  _ will _ say your imprisonment has been as humane as I can make it. I infringe only on your individual liberty.”

_ Liberty. _ The innate ideal that drove every man, woman and child yet still was deterred by those of the same race. Ben could have sparked a different argument entirely about the subject of  _ liberty _ , and how it sounded drenched in a Kingsman’s voice, but he relented. 

“I do not mean to insult your hospitality, Major Andre.” He didn’t, truly. He would be worse off if Andre had given him over to Simcoe’s evil methods, or placed anywhere else in the city. He  _ knew _ that, but he resented his place still, however gracious a captor he was under.

Andre yielded somewhat, as well, nodding. “Shall we continue?”

Ben agreed to further questioning, though he was still pressed about the identity of his contact, seemingly every other inquiry. He drained his drink throughout, desiring comfort in drunkenness, which he knew he could not get, undoubtedly not til the war ceded.

The report could not go much further without Ben revealing intelligence that he would not give. Visibly, Andre was frustrated with the fact, and Ben thought him a touch arrogant for thinking otherwise. Yet the report was completed without continuing argument, and Andre poured himself a second glass after signing with a flourish.

“Will you continue to update me on the exchange negotiations?” Ben ventured, following the rise of the man’s Adam’s apple. Andre stood, answering as he did. 

“I will, to the best of my ability, Major.” He leaned against the front of his desk, too near Ben for any sort of calm to be had. Ben detested being looked down upon, so he rose as well, awkwardly intruding Andre’s space for a moment as he did, their chests far too close to each other. Andre had the decency to appear embarrassed as Ben corrected the moment with the proper distance apart.

“Ah, thank- thank you for doing so.” Ben coughed, averting his eyes for a beat before met with, thankfully, a complete turn in subject.

“How do you fare on Shakespeare?” Andre asked, a question that Ben felt relieved, and a little satisfied, to answer. 

“Very well, actually. I finished reading  _ Julius Caesar _ just last night.” A fitting piece of literature to read, in these times of conflict with morality and politics. It was almost strange how many themes stood out to Ben, how he resonated with Brutus and Caesar each. Andre smiled, as if he knew what Ben was thought of it.

“Ah, a fine work.  _ ‘For let the gods so speed as I love the name of honor more than I fear death.’ _ ” The cadence of his voice took a velvet quality to it, strongly delivered as if Andre were onstage.

Ben let out a humorous breath, recognizing that Andre was picking out the line he believed fit he and his Patriot rival both.

Ben took quickly to memorization, and so replied with his own delivery. “‘ _ Thou art noble. Yet I see thy honorable mettle may be wrought from that it is disposed. _ ’” A smart line, and he spoke with a half grin, though its core message of tearing someone away from their personal honor struck him suitable for the situation

Andre laughed, straightening from his inclination against his desk, indicating the door with his hand. Ben followed him to it. “If only you could, sir, if only.”

He shrugged. “Believe me, Major Andre, it’s not for my lack of trying your patience.” There was a comfort to their banter, and that was partly why Ben took to writing of it. Andre’s countenance spoke of his good humor as he opened the door, letting Ben by. 

“You’ll find I have much more patience than you know.”

Ben only partially believed so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels like I've sat on this chapter for so long - I wanted to post it with the next chapter as well, but since my college move-in date is two weeks away, I figured I would post what I had completely done and edited.  
> Sorry if this one is almost a filler, it frustrates me too. Thank you for still reading and being patient! And yes, I attempted to make a solid timeline with the dates; it just helps me out for outlining and such.


	5. V.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapter update before college kills any update schedule I want to keep. Feedback’s always appreciated!

_ “What troubles my Damon?” Nathan asked, the candlelight enough to illuminate the crests of his cheeks, casting a shadow upon lips that would purse in thought just so. Ben often stared at his friend’s lips, and could not wholy feel guilt for it. _

_ “I couldn’t rightly say.” He settled on, causing Nathan to push at his shoulder, leaning towards him. Ben had always desired such proximity, and did not shove him away, instead angling his head for a kiss he was sure to come. _

_ “I think you know.” Pythias spoke, and pressed his lips against his. _

Ben woke with a start, a gasp breaking his reverie. His eyes burned, and his chest rose and fell with the urgency of a man desperate to keep from drowning. All was dark, the fire in his hearth having died out in the night. 

He sat up in his cot, pressing at his eyes with the heels of his hands, reining in his breath. It was not unusual for him to dream of Nathan from time to time. There would be the terrible ones, of Ben bearing witness to his execution, of Nathan not dying by the British but somehow by Ben’s own doing, perishing in his arms. Then lighter ones, of kisses and cherished nights that had not occured, but that should have.

Nathan Hale had loved him, and Ben loved him in measure. Yet he had wasted their time at Yale, wasted the chance to tell him, time and time again.

Regret was a worse noose than any he’d find with the enemy. It suffocated him, adorned his neck beneath his cravat, tightening when he’d think of Nathan, when Ben’d think of the way he’d enlisted. All for him, and yet rendered useless in the hour of need.

Robert Rogers had exposed Nathan Hale’s loyalties. Ben could not even enact revenge upon his friend’s  _ murderer _ . 

He got out of bed, so that he might not lay back and succumb again to sleep. Nathan had asked what troubled him - in the dream, it was simple enough; Ben denied his desires. Yet with his eyes open and mind clear it was not so. What troubled him? What troubled him indeed - it would be less of a chore to list what didn’t.

His foot knocked against a leg of the cot, stubbing his toe in the process and Ben swore loudly, hopping like an idiot for a moment or two. The sudden pain helped ground him, however and he glanced up out the window.

Andre was considering bestowing trust in him. Ben felt it more each day. Of course, Ben was a Patriot, passionate and unfettered in his speech about such views. Yet… he was considered. That accounted for something.

Ben had been gifted another set of clothes, better fitted. It weighed on him to be treated so… oddly. Abigail or Cicero would shave him every other morning. His papers were yet unread - he even received more stationery, a pair of new quills. Shakespeare’s plays had been traded out for an adventurous novel,  _ Robinson Crusoe _ , and there had been an offer to procure more reading for him.

He came to sit at his chair. It never would have crossed his mind to treat a desirable prisoner with that extent of regard. What would be his position, if it were Andre being held in camp? Respect would have surely been given. The Major was charming - anyone could see that - but sincere. He’d never come across a British officer with such a character. Hell, he had hardly come across officers of his own with the same manners.

_ Nathan, what might you say of him? _

His other half would have delighted in the more humorous side to John Andre. Certainly would have tested his luck against him in a game of draughts, or God forbid, cards. Ben could hear Nathan saying  _ A clever man, and there must be a Divine Purpose in him bleeding English, because he’d make a fine Continental. _

That Andre might wear blue instead of red. Ben half thought the war would have seen its end already come to pass had John Andre been brought up on American soil. Only just, however, for Ben knew his own worth and knew what he contributed to the war effort.

Now, had they worked together… England would have its regulars and entitled leaders back home already. Andre had a sharp mind, a clear image of his strategies, and a natural allure that would make men rally behind him. He would have made a fine ally.

Ben sighed, a buzz forming behind his eyes for want of the return to sleep. Wishing for a world where Major John Andre was part of Washington’s military circle would do nothing. Andre was no ally but an adversary, and a formidable one at that. There would be no use in sitting and imagining otherwise. The truth was that Ben simply found the Major a man of morality, and it was a compliment Ben did not give just anyone, including himself. 

Yet in this world painted black and white, Andre was a sketch in grey. A sinner in his actions and a saint in his soul. A mortal just as any, as Andre was keen to say, both of himself and of Ben. They were each mortal, each to fall victim to error, to base emotions such as anger, pride.

Lust.

Ben, however Caleb might have jested, was no fool when it came to physical desire - even if he  _ was _ inexperienced. Certainly had plenty opportunities to not be - from women, of course, and men, to his surprise. There had been instances where he was propositioned by a fellow soldier, but he always gently declined, wherein he’d had to state that he would certainly not report anything of it.

He knew what he looked like. He knew what the daughty manner of his speech could sound like to some ears. And he knew, on some level, that he had stirred Andre’s interest.

_ Is this what troubles you? _

Ben closed his eyes, and sighed. No _. _ It was not Andre’s interest that uneased him. 

It was his own, the way he’d look towards Andre’s jaw and lips during conversation. How he appeared wrought from gold in light of the fire. How easily it was to fall into Andre’s stories. The obvious route would be to manipulate Andre through the mortal feeling of lust, but Ben could not do it. 

Breaking trust was cruel enough, yet to play on sexual advances against a man that was a romantic at heart would be merciless. He could not entertain the idea, not without guilt clawing at him.

Even as he prepared for bed again, he knew, still, that he would have to get something of it.

 

Abigail had been set to shave him after breakfast. Ben gave her the polite words he always did, but Abigail did not truly speak her mind until she had nearly completed her task.

“Major Andre does respect you, Major Tallmadge.” He tilted his head to look at Abigail as she spoke. She gently turned his chin back, continuing to shave his stubble. 

“I hadn’t thought otherwise.” Ben replied, in a slow manner as to hide the question  _ Why do you say this? _

Abigail could control a room with her eyes, her station in life not holding back what actual power she truly held in her hands. She could have destroyed the ring before it had reaped any benefits. Her gaze spoke power now, and Ben swallowed.

She finished shaving him, and straightened her stature. “I don’t believe you understand how much he’s doing to keep you from death,” 

Ben wiped his own face with a towel, and looked down a moment. “Major Andre is a tactician - he plans a British victory of some kind.” Yet he knew what Abigail was alluding to, though it distressed him that Andre’s interest could be detected by others.

Her eyebrows raised. “I know what sort of victory he wants, sir, and it involves conquest instead of regular battle.”

Scoffing, Ben shook his head. “His interest in me could not cloud any proper judgement-”

“You haven’t come to  _ know _ him like me. Major Andre is a good army man, cruel when it‘s needed. But he feels too deeply, and if you think it’s simple interest, then for him it is obsession.”

He felt trapped in her words, laid bare in front of Abigail as though she were the God one met on day of judgement. He hesitated. “I have thought of… using him, Abigail. But I-”

She placed a hand on his arm, and sighed. “He is not just my employer, Major Tallmadge.” Those dark eyes fell on his. “You will do what you must. We all do.”

It was early October. Nathan had met his fate in the same crisp autumn air - but he had not been given the same chances that now were at Ben’s feet.

He gave her a short nod, “I will.”

 

“I think I may delight in writing to General Washington - tell me, does that make me a traitor?”

Andre jested as he joined Ben near the hearth; his cravat was loosened again, exposing that distracting throat. Ben chuckled, and looked towards the flames.

“I believe you’re traitorous only if you feel the sudden want to wear blue and gold.”

Andre’s smile could not be bested when it was genuine, and Ben found that it often was in his presence. “ _ Gold _ , you say? Might I be a colonel, then, in the Continental Army?”

He had not said  _ rebel army. _ Ben thought of Hamilton’s epaulettes as he answered. “Perhaps. Do you think you could outrank me?”

Andre ran his tongue on the inside of his bottom lip, wrinkles at his eyes crinkling. “Depends on how well you handle authority.”

Absurdly Ben pictured John Andre sewed up in a blue coat and golden braid.  _ “Do you understand my orders, Major Tallmadge?” He’d ask, stepping nearer to Ben’s desk in his tent- _

“I think we’d fare better as equals.” He settled with, feeling his pulse in his fingertips. Christ, he didn’t have to wreak havoc in his own mind - Andre’s glaring flirtations did enough to his person.

His opposite studied him, as if Ben might reveal the sudden fantasy he had. “In a proper situation, of course.” Andre said gently, since Benjamin continued to be a fairly submissive prisoner. 

Ben’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I feel on level ground with you even here, sir.” Ultimately it was true: they gave and received one another’s admiration, considered opinions and spoke formal when it was needed. They were each in the same business; espionage was not deemed glorious, rather, it was looked upon with disdain even by those in the army. Spying would never be as honorable as simply fighting.

But here Andre and he were, recognizing such honor in one another as spymasters. 

Andre gave the fire his attention before he spoke again. “I wouldn’t want you to feel otherwise, Major Tallmadge. We are equal in all matters.”

When his eyes met Ben’s again, hooded and steady, Ben felt he could drown.

He stopped himself from falling into the depths. “General Washington still has agreeable terms for you?” 

The glamor vanished from Andre’s face; for a moment he seemed startled. He cleared his throat, nodding. “Yes, it is all the matter of securing a date for the exchange. I will admit-” At this he looked towards Ben in pity. “General Clinton grows weary.”

Shouldn’t Andre be growing tired of keeping a pet rebel in his house? Two weeks was stretching into three - it was a strange occurrence. Ben was no longer sure of his hanging, but being kept for so long didn’t bode well, either.

“He wishes for my execution.” Ben inferred.

Andre sighed. “I suggested that he meet with you, conduct an interview as he pleases.”

“Was yours not satisfactory?”

The man laughed, and it was bitter. “He did not say so, no. Yet he is a man who ultimately prefers conduct business as he sees fit.”

Ben raised his brows. “Do you worry for me, Major Andre?”

His bait was taken. Andre’s smile turned coy, and he shook his head. “It might be that I worry for what your death would mean for this war.”

Curiosity arose in Ben: he imagined Andre would be displeased, but would see the advantages. “My death could mean British victory, sir.”

“No,” said Andre, his face turned serious. “Your death would only serve to show the injustice of warfare. There have been far too many casualties of this fight -  _ one _ was too many. Major Tallmadge, your death would be a distressing affair, for both parties. It would weigh on me greatly.”

Nathan Hale’s noose tightened around Ben’s neck, and he fought to answer. “I- I can understand. I wish not to do any harm to your conscience.”  _ But I will, I’ll have to. _

“It’s not just my conscience, I fear. You are… charming to talk to, man to man.” Andre admitted, leaning towards Ben, not close enough for Ben to be up in arms over, but enough to straddle the intimate boundary. 

He wanted to touch him. Place a hand over his or on his arm, on his knee.

Ben squeezed his hands to stay such brazen - and  _ treacherous _ \- desires.

His voice carried a tremor he could not still. “I… wish that we could be friends.”

Andre’s lips quirked in a half grin. “Can’t we, Major Tallmadge?” 

He tried to laugh, and shake his head. It made a rather sad sight. “Ah, no-”

Andre rose, and Ben matched his movement. There was no denying the arousal written on Andre’s face, how he looked at Ben with such a gaze that Ben wanted, more than anything, to just be  _ taken _ .

He hands gripped at Andre’s waistcoat, pulling them closer. Andre was trying to guide him backwards, and kicked his chair to his side. 

“Major Tallmadge-” He spoke in a gruff whisper, as Ben’s back hit the stone wall. They were each breathing heavy, and Ben tightened his hold. 

“Would you-” Ben searched for something, attempting to ignore the heat rising in his blood, tightening his breeches. “Call me Benjamin,  _ please _ .”

“Benjamin,” Echoed Andre, and pressed his nose at the curve of Ben’s jaw. Ben shuddered, and Andre repeated it. “ _ Benjamin _ .”

Andre was hardening against Ben’s thigh, and Ben squirmed so that he could find some friction. He embraced Andre properly, moving his hands from the front of his shirt. God, he was  _ fucked _ \- for wanting to  _ fuck _ a British officer- 

Andre’s lips captured his, and he couldn’t think, only that he was  _ wanted _ and a tongue was coaxing his mouth open. Ben allowed it, and groaned, pulling at the back of Andre’s coat; Andre’s hands were cupping his face-

He couldn’t do this. He could not do this.

Ben bit down sharply, causing Andre let out a cry, and shoved the man back. 

He could taste his blood in his mouth, and his hand came to cover it.

“I- apologize-” Andre panted, for once not looking at him. His arousal was still prominent, and irrationally Ben ached. “I didn’t… think. I did not think, Major Tallmadge.”

Ben shook his head, eyes full. “No, no, I- I don’t-”  _ What? _ He wanted Andre, but he wanted Andre without everything else. Without the war, without death following their footsteps. He wanted Andre, but he couldn’t have him and still be a man of his country.

“You are a fine man, Major Andre.” He finally said, turning from him so that the man would not witness tears of frustration, of pity.

“Perhaps it’s best if we… continued our civility, but forget this, sir.” Andre offered behind him, sounding every bit as rejected as Ben feared. He could only nod, and heard Andre advance for the door, taking time to straighten himself out. It shut with a roughness that revealed Andre’s own frustrations.

_ Oh, Damon, what is it you’ve done? _ Nathan’s phantom asked, as Ben sank to his seat, to bury his face in his hands.

_ I don’t know, and I don’t know what I can do to remedy it. _

He barely slept.


	6. VI.

_ October 15th _

_ I am told that I will be visited by General Clinton tomorrow morning. _

The scratch of his quill against paper did little to soothe Ben’s nerves. He’d been expecting this for nearly a week, but to hear of it now placed newfound fear into his heart. A month away from camp, the Commander in Chief to the Royal Army coming to visit him… he’d been outnumbered from the start, and now quite literally would have a whole army against him.

Andre was knit together with stress, too; Ben could see it in the dark circles under his eyes, in the way he’d clench his jaw. He spoke little of what Clinton could have in mind, only that he was a man of integrity, who would do the right thing. Andre had said it twice, causing Ben to believe it was more for Andre to hear himself. 

They did not speak of what took place between them.

Silence on the matter did nothing to change what closeness they entertained before, though. Andre would still tease, Ben would smile back; Andre would sit near him, Ben would shift closer as their talks drew on. But there were times when Andre had to look away, when Andre opened his mouth only to close it. He would not touch Ben, no clasp on the arm or parting handshake as he might have.

If Ben were a lesser man, he would view this as triumph, give Andre what he desired and ruin him with it.

Ben only suffered.

He kept his writing today short, not wanting to ponder the state of his imprisonment, or ponder the length of his life. He did, however, ponder the fate of his papers; they lay stacked neatly at the table, sitting at the corner nearest the door. Andre hadn’t confiscated them, but Ben was certain they were not meant to be his.

He wished to keep some of them, the ones that would prove most relevant to his report upon his return, by release or by flight. Andre was no idiot to reveal anything past Ben’s own case, yet the ensigns assigned to him were not quite as tight lipped. Ben gathered word of supply shipments, possible regiment movements - even of Clinton wanting to clash against the French in the south. He’d disguised it in love letters, but he’d have to find a way to disguise it further.

Ben leaned back in his chair, and let his mind think of Caleb’s singing. Not a bawdy bar song, but a melody he could often hear his friend sing around the campfire in the evening.

_ The nymph that un-does me is fair and kind; _

_ No less than a wonder by nature defined. _

He found himself humming the tune,  _ The grief of my heart, the joy of my eye, _

“The cause of a flame that never can die.” Ben murmured, missing Caleb and how he could ease his troubles. Occasionally add to them, but Caleb Brewster was more a saint than Ben would ever believe himself to be. Sailor or not.

He was smirking at his own jest when Abigail appeared, with his freshly laundered clothes. She smiled softly at him (he’d copied a sketch she wanted to give to Cicero a few days before), and set his clothes down at his cot. Ben nearly didn’t catch it before his eyes saw the glint sticking out of her apron pocket.

“Abigail,” He said, an idea piecing itself together in his mind, excitement threatening to make him sound over eager. “Could you get me a needle and thread?” Not even thread… just the needle would suffice.

She frowned, hardening the pretty features of her face. Abigail had crossly asked him before why he hadn’t taken chances with Andre so vulnerable to him, yet was still careful to let Ben have anything that may harm her charge. “What for, Major?”

He gestured towards his extra waistcoat. “I’ve a few adjustments to make.”

In the end, she did smuggle him a needle and plain thread when bringing down his supper. She often brought his meals with the door open, in order to avoid Ensign Johnson and Garrett harboring suspicion. Abigail set down his tray, and pressed closer than she would have. “I stuck it in the roll, sir.” She barely murmured, and slipped him a spool of thread by simply dropping it in his lap. 

Ben straightened, adjusting his coat to cover it. “Thank you,” He spoke at volume, and she left.

He set to his task once he was left to his own devices. Starting from the waistcoat’s back, Ben eased out the stitches of the hem with the needle’s head, attempting to salvage as much of the original thread as he could. The entire piece would have to be taken apart for his plan to work; the effect would be ruined just as well if he even thought about using everything he’d written. No, only the most useful papers could replace the lining.

Laborious and mind numbing, Ben lost himself in taking apart his waistcoat. It was foolish to fall unalert, for he nearly was caught come dinner. Part of him believed there’d be nothing to come of it - but what good reason would he have for “altering” his clothing? He stuck the needle inside the lining of his coat, and arranged his clothes atop the garment. 

He was surprised to see that “dinner” wasn’t dinner at all. Johnson opened the door, studying Abigail with the same lewd gaze he kept, and Abigail bowed. “Major Andre wishes for you to dine with him.”

_ And more _ . Ben cocked his head. “Am I given room to refuse?”

Ensign Johnson spat. “Just fuckin get on, lest we have to drag you up.” 

Abigail eyed him warily, and lead Ben out of his room. Confinement and a repetitive schedule did nothing for a man’s mind (Ben believed this was why Nathan spoke to him so much, because he felt lonely and endangered.) This lead to Ben finding relief in a change of setting, the little he’d seen of Andre’s home before not comparing to how it was at night.

And there he sat, a hero out of the classics Ben admired so much, with the soul of Shakespeare. He hadn’t yet begun his own meal; it would be far too rude to.

There was only one other place set. 

“Good evening, Major Tallmadge. Abigail, I trust Johnson and Garrett can take their dinner in the kitchen tonight?” Andre said this all while pouring two glasses of wine, and took one in hand, standing to greet Ben. He had a habit of swinging his arm when walking, and he paused near the entrance.

“Well?” He appeared bewildered that his ensigns hadn’t yet left. Ben awkwardly stepped his way further into the dining room.

“Ah- yes, yessir.” Garrett stuttered, slightly bowing and nudging Johnson along, who seemed off put that his Major wouldn’t want their protection.

Cutlery caught Ben’s eye, but it was more habit than anything. Still, he remained a rebel in a Redcoat’s home, and he could not fall into complete ease.

Andre turned to him once they were alone, Abigail having gone to set out the ensigns’ dinner. “Here you are, Major Tallmadge,” The glass was passed to him, and Ben blinked, nodding in thanks.

He took a drink before joining Andre at the table. “Have you felt an ungracious host without having me up for dinner?” He spoke lightly, though Andre’s face spoke of a more serious reason before grinning.

“Something of the sort, Major Tallmadge. I don’t feel you’ll have to torture yourself too much over it.” He knocked back his drink, much as he had when Ben was interrogated. Ben shrugged, setting his glass aside and arranging his silverware as he was accustomed to. The detail made Andre snicker, and Ben raised his eyebrows.

“We were not all raised in Europe,” His voice was grave before breaking into a laugh, Andre joining him.

“Ah, I had to show Abigail when she first arrived how an Englishman sets his table, and cuts his meat.”

Ben chuckled, taking himself another drink, and as he did Abigail came in with the entree of tonight’s meal - roast chicken and greens.

“Thank you,” He smiled at her as she served him, and there was a glint in her eye, a quirk to her lips as she finished. Andre gazed at her fondly, before adding. 

“Let Cicero have his meal early - so that he might have dessert at a better time.”

Abigail smiled fully now, a vision. “He told you how he liked strawberries, did he?”

Andre fought to keep grinning like a fool; Ben found it charming. “Only after I caught him eating them fresh from the market, madam.”

She shook her head. “I’ll have to make him mind better around here.”

“Not too much, I hope.” Andre replied, and she took her leave. Ben felt he could burst - they truly were friends, and Andre even cared for Cicero.

He took a few bites in silence, and his conversation did not take the same jovial manner as before. “You make me worry, sir, that this may be my last meal,” His eyes went to Andre, whose lips parted, stilling his knife.

“It is not your last meal, that I can assure you. I just desired to speak to you, officer to officer, instead of my being your warden.” Andre set down his knife, switching the fork in his hand, skewering his chicken. 

Ben tapped at the rim of his glass. “That tells me you worry of what General Clinton has to offer.”

Andre gave his attention to the cooked asparagus, and washed them down with a generous amount of wine, all the while looking at Ben as though he would shatter any second.

“You already know what he’ll say.” Ben finally said, and looked at his barely touched plate. No, he would not fall into such fear. He’d spent nearly a month allowing his stress and anxieties imaging the worst, irrationally fantasizing the impossible. He continued to eat, and it was Andre that broke the growing quiet.

“General Clinton finds the exchange an insult, Major Tallmadge.”

Ben set down his cutlery, and his knuckles whitened with how he tensed his hands. “His Excellency has been more than reasonable throughout your negotiations-”

“I know that, sir, and I know I’ve been a man of luck to have the pleasure of his patience. But it is Clinton that is insulted. If I had my way with you-”

At this Ben fought embarrassment, but Andre did not notice his choice of words. “You would have already been let go.”

Ben sighed, and rubbed at his forehead in frustration. “This is useless, Major Andre - I’ve given you nothing of value, nothing for you to keep me from joining my fallen officers.” He did not look at him, did not want to look at him. “I will meet whatever fate is given to me with-”

“Benjamin,” Andre said, softly. Ben’s breath caught in his throat, and he clenched his jaw, not in anger, but to keep himself from overemotion. 

“I  _ need _ Culper.”

The table shook, Ben’s glass spilling over on cloth as he stood. “That’s all you’ve been after, sir? Is it not?” Now it was anger that made his speech shake, yet he felt his chest squeeze together, feeling as if his lungs were finding his ribcage too tight. Andre, infuriatingly, remained calm, only flicking his gaze up to Ben.

“Not all, Major. I want you alive.”

_ Because you want me. _ Ben did not take his seat for the time being, instead rapping his knuckles against the table, head still turned from Andre. “I will not give you Culper.”

Andre noticed the hesitance towards the end of his statement. “But?”

Ben looked at him with a serious gaze. “I can give you Mister Damon,” Rash, to mock Andre with the name Nathan so fondly called him.

Brows furrowed, Andre questioned, “Damon? Is this your agent in New York?”

“Oh, he’s in New York.” Ben was filling his glass, returning to his seat as if his temper never slipped. “You’ve even had him at your table. Quite recently, too.”

He received the frown he imagined. “You… are Damon.”

Hearing that name in John Andre’s voice was desecration to Nathan and wherever he may rest, but Ben smiled, and it was cold. “There. I have given you something - your General can decide justly, now.”

He remained eerily serene throughout the remainder of the evening, even as Andre’s mood visibly grew more foul, the conversation not escaping that sour emotion. Perhaps Ben was now at peace with that his fate was truly coming to a pivotal juncture the next day. 

Abigail cleared away dinner, looking over the stained tablecloth in distaste. She inquired nothing, Andre excusing it as an act of clumsiness.

Dessert was a strawberry and cream cake.

The sugar barely made itself known on Ben’s tongue when Andre gave voice to his temper.

“Have you no comprehension of what I have done for you, sir? That you might be throwing away  _ my _ good intentions has not crossed your mind?”

Ben wiped at his mouth. “It’s quite selfish of you, Major Andre, to think your good intent holds precedence over my life.”

Andre’s eyes narrowed. “I am trying to save it - you are simply acting a martyr for your dear Washington.” His volume was picking up, and Ben grew insulted.

“No!” He raised his voice. “I respect Washington, and admire him. But I do not fight for  _ him _ , nor do I intend to  _ die _ for him. When I die, it will be as an American, for my American brethren. Not for any one man, such as you would for your king.”

“There it is, Major Tallmadge,” Andre had not settled his voice nor softened his tone. “You are the most naive creature I’ve come to known. Your idealism will be your ruin - I will not die for my King, much as you will  _ not _ die for your General. We live as men and die as such - not for anything but ourselves.”

“Yet you continue to concern yourself over my death.”

Andre’s jaw tightened. “I will not see you hanged.”

Ben spoke freshly, “I  _ am _ an officer, perhaps a firing squad-”

Andre threw down his napkin, rising from his seat. “I tire of you, sir! Your company has been poor this evening-” He walked away from the table, coming to the chair opposite where he had sat at the head. “-I’ll inform Abigail we’re quite finished.”

Ben stood, straightening out his jacket. He gave Andre a nod of the head, simply for insolence. “I bid you good night, sir.”

Andre’s lips were a hard line as he went to the door to call for Abigail and the ensigns. When they arrived, Johnson made to forcibly remove Ben, but Andre halted him.

“I trust you will give General Clinton the utmost respect tomorrow morning, Major.”

Ben’s lips quirked. “I may.”

Blue eyes darkened, “Good night, sir.”

Was this it? Ben wondered as he was escorted downstairs. Had he broken off any amity he might have had with Andre? It was doubtful, for Andre expressed such honest worry over his fate, yet Ben pushed him, constantly. A Loyalist could not understand the cruelty put upon those who saw the oppressor king for what he was, who saw the evils of Parliament.

For years now, that had been the way Ben saw the world. No Loyalist would ever have the same heart as any patriot. No Royal Army regular could compare to a Continental soldier. If the British were guilty of elitism, then Ben was as well.

_ Your idealism will be your ruin _ .

He spent the night at work, successfully stitching in his guarded letters, retiring hours past midnight.

_ The phantom of Nathan Hale kissed him in his dream, before John Andre replaced his blue coat with that of Andre’s own, loosened the rope at his neck. _

_ ‘Naive creature.’ _

 

General Clinton did not meet Ben’s expectations. Shorter than Andre, and growing a pot belly, Ben thought he fit the image of an aging lord, happy to chase around maids until his heart gave out.

But there was a ferocity to him, something in the way he looked over Ben that made the patriot taste the fear he so tried to swallow.

Ben was sitting, unrestrained, in Andre’s sitting room, the man himself standing behind his desk, less a hero out of the classics and more a sleep deprived mortal.

“Well, John, it impresses me that you’ve lived so long with a rebel underfoot.” Clinton first uttered after he sauntered in. Ben heard a second guest in the corridor, and braced himself for the worst. The Royal Army commander was going to let his  _ bitch _ Simcoe sink his teeth into him-

Lieutenant Gamble stepped into the room, and threw a promising grin Ben’s direction.

“Major Andre,” The man greeted with a bow, before taking a corner seat. Andre gave him acknowledgement, yet questioned his presence.

“General, why is Lieutenant Gamble here for our proceedings?” 

Clinton made himself comfortable on the sofa he’d chosen. “He captured Major Tallmadge, so I see it fitting he hear what’s to become of him.”

Mouth dry, Ben finally spoke, attempting to ignore the murderer in the corner, the harbinger of his imprisonment. “General Clinton, sir, I’ve spent the last month unsure of my fate. I ask that you tell me frankly.”

Andre shot him a look of disapproval, while the lord’s eyebrows raised. “I wish you had not spent  _ so long _ in such uncertainty. You may thank Major Andre here for lengthening your stay out of the wilderness. I’m sure you found it comfortable.”

He could see the insult towards Washington’s army in Clinton’s words, and felt his skin heat. “He has been most gracious, sir.”

“Too gracious, I think. For a man conducting espionage behind enemy lines, Major Tallmadge,” Clinton’s words grew clipped, “You have long overstayed any welcome.”

“ _ Sir, _ ” Andre protested. “He is the  _ Head of Intelligence _ , General Washington would trade any amount of-”

“I would not, if I were in his place.” The red general interrupted, and Andre froze. Ben’s lips parted in surprise. “If it were you, John, much as I enjoy your dinners and your skill, much as I admire  _ you _ \- I would not exchange all of our pieces for one man. It would be foolish of Washington to do so.”

Andre was silent, but Ben could not be. “General Washington wished to conduct a fair prisoner trade, officer for officer.” He had known an exchange wouldn’t sate the British desire to ruin his commander, yet to hear a man who was supposed to be Washington’s equal speak of him in such a light - Ben would  _ not _ remain quiet.

Gamble tutted from his corner, though his superiors ignored him, and thankfully did not allow for him to speak.

“There is no exchange to be had here.” Clinton raised both his hands. “I entertained the idea, that much is true - but, Major Tallmadge, you asked for frankness, and that you’ll have: I want to see you hanged.”

For a moment, it felt the world collapsed on Ben’s shoulders. To hear it from the mouth of a man who could make it happen was different than speaking of execution. His hands squeezed his knees, and he let out a breath.

Andre took it less well, striding in front of his superior, keeping the distance between them as an advantage. “General, you know my aversion to executing prisoners of war. I don’t care if-”

“Neither do I! Concern yourself with my aversion - to this whole bloody rebellion! Now, do take a  _ seat _ , John.”

Andre yielded, sinking to the chair he’d interrogated Ben in. Clinton turned his cool gaze to the man he’d just damned.

“Major Tallmadge, the next time you’ll see me you’ll be walking the steps of your gallows. Two days, sir, to allow you to write final letters, and seek repentance from our God.”

Nathan’s letters had never surfaced.

Benjamin nodded. “I thank you, General Clinton, for your clarity and for the privileges I’ll receive.”

Andre simmered, and Ben could see it. General Clinton, however, was oblivious. 

“And I thank you, Major Tallmadge, for your favorable conduct.” He called in the ensigns - and Ben slowly stood, feeling every eye on him as he was readied to leave.

“Major Tallmadge.” Andre called, before he could be turned away. Clinton eyed his subordinate with a hard glare. “I ask for your forgiveness in this matter.”

Ben gently smiled, gave a nod. “You have my forgiveness, Major Andre. There’s nothing to be done.”

Perhaps Andre saw the acceptance for what it truly was: an apology for what transpired between them. Perhaps he believed Ben was forfeiting his chances of survival.

Benjamin only knew he was not going to see General Clinton again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 is going to be drama and action filled; sorry again if anything feels like filler! Hope to see you soon.


	7. VII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Talk of religion, more than in previous chapters.

Nearly three hours passed before Ben received a visit in his room. He had finished sewing his papers into his waistcoat, and formulated a shaky scheme in his head. It was subject to change come new information, or Ben’s possible failure. He would  _ not _ hang, though; just the same as he felt as when he was captured by Gamble - Benjamin Tallmadge would not die without seeing America made free.

His visitor was not the man he’d expected.

“Laddie!” Gamble strode in, looking over the table at his left in some interest. Ben frowned, but kept to his seat. It wouldn’t do to incite a fight, even if Ben’s still new scar stung in Gamble’s presence. Even  _ if _ Ben did want to batter his face in… the timing simply didn’t call for it.

“Gamble.” He voiced, not a trace of warmth to be found. “Why is it you’re here?” 

The Redcoat clicked his tongue. “Business to be attended to, y’see. But I asked if I might pop in, eh? Though the Major wasn’t too keen on it,” Gamble chuckled; his reprimand must have not been as harsh as Andre wished for. He took a seat on Ben’s cot, and Ben could feel the hair raise at his neck. 

_ He cannot harm me. Even Clinton would be dissatisfied.  _

Ben shifted in his chair. “I suppose you’re quite happy with how this will end.”

Gamble shrugged. “Ah, can’t say I am. I’ve heard quite a few things that you’ve been up to, boy, and not a one of them was very good. Dyin’ on the rope’ll be the most useful you’ve been in York.”

Ben pacified a flinch, and breathed. “I’ll die with a clear conscience.” Unlikely, for even at his age now he felt tainted with the deeds he’d done, and the deeds he had let slip from him.

“Maybe, maybe,” A grin that spoke murder crossed the Englishman’s features. “I think your conscience is a lil more black than you let on.”

Coming from  _ Gamble _ , of all people. He was cut from the same cloth as Simcoe. Calculating and lacking empathy, with the sick desire of blood to be spilt. Yet Ben worried - what was he on about?

“I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”

Gamble put his elbows at his knees and leaned forward, pitching his voice lower. “Aye, but ya do. See, when I told you Major Andre was soft, I didn’t think you’d take him for a Molly.”

Ben’s eyes widened - inwardly he could only think of what it was like to have Andre’s mouth at his, and immediately knew Andre hadn’t sent away the ensigns from their post that night. How could Ben assume that he had? But they  _ talked _ , and he hated them for it.

He was guarded in his reply. “Slander’s a steep offense. I’m not sure how well such rumors could go in your favor.”

There was a visible dislike in Gamble’s eyes, and he narrowed them. “Nothin’s to go in my favor but your death, Tallmadge. I just think playing bedmate should’ve got you further.”

Flushed in anger now, Ben snapped. “I am not a  _ bedmate _ of Major Andre’s, and I have never been. If you’re here to simply taunt me, I think you’ve had your fun.”

“Lad-” Gamble started, but Ben rose from his seat. 

“I am  _ Major _ Tallmadge, and you’ll address me with some form of respect. I treated the General of your army with manners, and you have done nothing in the same regard.”

His enemy went to his level, stepping into his space. “A grudge for Sackett, still,  _ sir _ ?” He dripped condescension and poison, but Ben thought fear at this stage was pointless.

“Murder will not go unpunished,  _ Lieutenant _ . War does not excuse it.”

Gamble’s eyes searched him, and settled on his cheek. “I’ll let your ghost haunt me for it - I believe we’ll be even then.” He turned on his heel, and did not stop to look back as he took his leave. Ben sighed in relief, and closed his eyes once he returned to his chair.

Rogers. Simcoe. Gamble.

He felt responsible for them all, having had opportunities time and again to put an end to their blood stained careers. Yet time and again he was cut short of doing so; the future could not hold the same.

Caleb’s uncle had been shot in front of them both. He’d known Caleb would only earn a bullet between the eyes had he acted then, so Ben stopped him. 

Then came Monmouth. It was near impossible to search for a single man on the battlefield, and Ben had barely just heard of the Queen’s Rangers being present. He cut down a few, but never got close to Simcoe.

And then he ruined another chance. The splintered floor bore that mark.

As for Rogers…

_ I won’t be hiding. _

But was Rogers doing just that? No, there had to be something keeping the man from hunting down Ben as he had after the ambush. A greater stag to fell-

Ben’s brow creased in thought, itching to put his thoughts to paper, as to view them clearly. But he was to be writing his final letters, not guessing at the current motives of Robert Rogers. 

Simcoe had been appointed to replace Rogers by Major John Andre.  _ Do not forget who gave you your position on a silver platter. _

It explained Simcoe’s paranoia that Rogers was out for his neck; Andre traded an old hound for a younger, more ruthless one. But was it Simcoe Rogers wanted? Or Andre?

Ben glanced towards the unlit fire. It was  _ almost _ funny, to believe he was being passed over for men who were once allies of the Ranger. It was just almost, though, because Nathan’s smile came to mind and Ben was pained. The wolf could hunt the stag, but Ben boasted a clean shot.

His leg bounced in anticipation, even though such determination was misdirected in the moment. No, no. He needed to think of  _ now _ , and make his scheme a certain reality.

What Ben needed was Abigail.

She arrived with supper, later than Ben had hoped. Though Ben smiled at her, she was distant. The set of her jaw and the liquid look to her gaze told her the news of his execution upset her. Abigail did not want to see him die.

A new  of ink was set at his table. “For your letters, sir. If you be needing new quills as well, I can get them.” Her touch hovered at the glass, and she glanced over the unruly state of his papers. She expected something of him, and her attention was caught when he shook his head.

“I’ve no need of them; though,” Ben’s voice was soft, though the door was closed. He could not risk anything at such a time. “I’ve more to ask of you.”

Stiffly, she nodded. “How might I help?”

His throat was dry. “I’ll be needing a weapon, Abigail.” He cautiously tred, earning the look he feared, the protest painted clearly upon her features. “I don’t want to use it, if I have no need to. Certainly not-” Ben’s breath caught, and he coughed. “ _ Certainly _ not on Major Andre.”

Hands rubbed at her apron: she was looking over the request in her mind. “Alright,” Abigail conceded, “I’m thinking that won’t be all?”

Ben had the decency to blush for his mind reminded him of the detail of getting through the city without raising suspicion. “I’ll be needing a cloak, and hat, for when I leave. If you could hide them away without Andre’s notice, I’d be in your debt.”

Abigail, the quick woman she was, replied without so much as a blink. “You have always been in my debt.”

 

_ You have been a great Leader, a great Teacher to me, Sir, and I express my Gratitude for being able to serve my Country under your command. It is true I have never been able to be the most Subservient, but it is that quality that allowed me to show you my Talents. To be your Head of Intelligence has been an Honor. To be a confidant of yours has been even higher. I give my Thanks, and ask for your forgiveness, for this time I failed you, and I cannot correct it. I will meet my Fate with Integrity, Calm and Decency. My only Regret- _

Ben paused, hearing Nathan’s words echo in his soul.  _ Is that I have but one life to lose, for my country. _

_ My only Regret is that I will not witness America earn her Liberty at this war’s end.  _

He stopped.

It was doubtless that Andre would have to review his letters, yet Ben felt strange writing these as if he  _ were _ to die. Would they be sent out before his escape? Would they be kept? He didn’t know, but he had to write something to keep his appearance of accepting fate.

He signed his letter to his General, ending with.

_ I will remain Your Humble Servant, _

_ Major Benjamin Tallmadge _

 

Andre did not wear the emotion plainly, but Ben knew the mood was somber when the major came to him. It was not yet nightfall, and the room was bathed in evening orange. Shadows cast only served to exaggerate the bruised skin at Andre’s eyes.

His nights were plagued, and Ben could not fathom how  _ he _ could affect a person so much.

“You’ve written, I see,” Andre observed, his voice a pitch lower, hinting at his exhaustion. Fingers plucked at the corner of Ben’s letter to Washington, and Ben swallowed.

“I have, sir. Three letters; one to my father, one to a friend, and one to my commander.”

He could not imagine Caleb’s reaction to such a thing, but he had been the one to come to mind when Ben was writing. Anna had, as well, especially because of the way Ben had thought to conceal his notes. Caleb, though, was one Ben wished for daily. His words of, albeit  _ rough _ , wisdom would clear Ben’s head, would ease the tension that came with his anxieties. 

Andre set down the missive, drawing his eyes over Ben, where he was sitting on his cot.

“No letter to a lady, Major?” The words were a jest, yet Andre could have sighed for all the heart he gave to it. A smile broke Ben’s features in reply; a smile that was not happy. 

“I’m afraid not. Perhaps…” He looked down at his hands, and knitted them together, turning away and clearing his throat. “I simply have no courage for it.”

One of his chairs scraped the wooden floor, and Andre sat across from him, legs crossed. “You show enough courage for many things, sir.”  _ Courage enough to die, and not mind it. _ Ben shook his head.

“Passivity is not courage, Major Andre. I accept my sentence, but I do so at the cost of my pride.”  _ And my honor, _ he thought, aching at how he might further harm a man he did not wish to.

War reaped few benefits for all it ruined.

“What might General Washington think of your passivity, then?” There was genuine curiosity there, and Ben wondered if Andre knew how Ben truly saw Washington; more a stern father than simply a commander. It had to be so, for the major asked it gently.

He drew in a breath, trying to steady himself. “Captain Hale - Nathan-” Ben’s eyes burned, and again, he cleared his throat. “Nathan’s hanging affected General Washington in a deep manner. He was the one to think of having a man in the city, and Nathan-”

_ We serve Liberty, Ben, and I worship her, and follow the man she blessed. _

“He accepted, sir. I fear he knew not the consequences.” His cheeks had grown wet, and he wiped at them. “My death, as you well know, will… cause greater distress. I am- I know of my value to the British Army-”

Andre’s lips parted, as if he might inform Ben of his value to  _ him _ , but Ben continued, wringing his hands, eyes full and on the hearth.

“If you wish to break my commander’s spirit, then you will, sir.” God, it  _ hurt _ , because he was  _ lying _ and yet he knew everything he said to be true. Washington was difficult, was blind at times and could be  _ stone _ , but Ben saw past the flaws, the hero worship and saw a man to have faith in. He’d seen pride in Washington’s gaze, and had his respect. If he died, not only did His Excellency lose his Head of Intelligence - he lost a member of his military family.

Andre had moved across the room, and Ben found he was too tired now to care if anything were to happen as it had before. A hand was placed on his shoulder, and squeezed.

“I do not wish such a thing on anyone, Major Tallmadge.” Andre’s voice was steady, firmer than it had been tonight. His hand hovered nearer to Ben’s face before Andre dropped his touch entirely. “I truly am sorry for what this has come to.”

Ben nodded, stiffly, searching for where the air in the room disappeared to. “Andre-” It was as informal as he dared to go, “I’m sorry, as well.”

His rival - his  _ something _ \- was silent near him, and Ben wanted to believe he’d been left alone, though he knew it was in vain. 

“You loved Hale, didn’t you?”

Ben’s heart broke, and madly, cheeks wet, he laughed, the pathetic sound filling the room. “I did, I did,” He shook his head. “I  _ nnn _ ever told him,” Even admitting his weakness could not be done admirably, catching in his throat as would a coward’s confession.

_ Coward _ .

He covered his face with his hands, almost at his knees. He could not bear to look at John Andre and his understanding, his compassion. Ben did not  _ want _ to want it, to need it, so he had to shut it out.

Andre hovered near him; Ben was sure of it. He pressed his hands harder at his eyes, that he might stop his tears, his ache. He  _ couldn’t _ .

“Major Tallmadge,” Andre began, and immediately halted. He sounded tired - Ben was tired, too. Tired of it all, tired of carrying a cross at his back that was too heavy to bear. “I believe, sir, you will find peace, in some form or another. You are a good man - and if you loved him, Captain Hale must have been a good man, as well.”

Benjamin was a sinner, and Nathan Hale had been Liberty’s martyr. What afterlife would have allowed them to find peace?

He sighed, and bobbed his head, not uncovering his tear streaked face. Why did this man, this  _ Loyalist _ , bloodyback  _ Englishman _ , have to  _ care _ ? To worm his way into Ben’s mind?

The door opened, its creak letting Ben know of the Major’s departure. 

“Good night, Major.” Andre spoke softly, and Ben opened his eyes as the door shut fully.

Tomorrow, he would pray.

 

Come morning, the routine Ben had come to live by disintegrated. He was unaware of it til he finished dressing, the last button at his waistcoat buttoned when he realized the quiet surrounding him. There was no dim conversation had outside his door, no floor creaking to indicate the ensigns were at their post. He finished dressing, tying an ugly twist to his cravat, and dared to open his door.

Empty. There came only dull noises from upstairs.

It did not mean he wasn’t under watch. The ensigns’ absence could not mean much else other than, perhaps, a certain level of parole. Yes, parole on the last days the British believed Ben to have. It wasn’t unique to his situation - in fact, a Colonel Webb he had known in the Setauket raid had gotten captured, but knew the luxury of parole behind enemy lines. Now he’d be given the same privilege, though he imagined for his rank and his execution date being so near, certain precautions would be taken.

He carefully tread up the steps, only to find himself facing Cicero.

“Ah, sorry, sir! Was coming down to get you - Mama wanted you in the kitchen for a while.” He promptly turned, expecting Ben to follow along. Ben’s gaze flitted along wallpaper that decorated the corridor. To attempt escape now may foul everything.

Indecision had made itself apart of Ben’s thought process since his imprisonment, and it wore at him that he couldn’t be certain of one way or the other. He needed to get out, yet he hesitated for most of his chances. Andre was an obstacle, yet he could not knock him down.

He followed Cicero to the kitchen.

Abigail was kneading dough, the hearth at the end of the room burning comfortably. Ben’s chest lightened for the simple luxury of perhaps smelling baking bread again. “Major Tallmadge,” She did not turn to him. “I’ve been told you’ll have parole around the house for these last two days; Major Andre sent away those boys who been watching you, at least inside.”

So parole it was. He’d ached for a change, and one way or the other, he had gotten what he desired. The corner of his lips turned up. “You’re to watch me, instead?”

Brown and blue met, her gaze boring into him. “Cicero,” She spoke sternly towards her son, though kept herself turned towards Ben. “You’ve got silver to polish in the dining room. Don’t want to see you until you’ve got it all done.”

Cicero gave her a quick, but low, bow. “Yes, ma’am.” Ben followed him with his eyes as he left, attempting to dislodge himself from Abigail’s glare. He took a seat on a stool near the table where she worked.

Her hands tensed and released as she shaped the dough. “I got you your things. Had to wait ‘til the Major was asleep before I could get you a pistol.”

The idea of being forced to place a bullet in Andre’s heart briefly made Ben breathless, before he nodded. A pistol would definitely suit him well, yet it would do nothing for his other worries.

“Thank you, Abigail. For everything.”

She sighed, unceremoniously dumping her dough into a floured pan. Leaning her full weight against her hands at the table, she bore the weight of the world, and its new revolution.

“Don’t thank me yet, sir. There is no sure way of how this’ll turn out.”

 

Ben could not argue, not with her or her truth.

 

He spent much of his day with her, fighting protests about he not doing any work. She could not do much other than simply allow it. Ben was helping with mending, enjoying once again the mind numbing the task brought, when Abigail relaxed enough around him to simply talk.

“Major Andre’s stopped going to the theatre.”

He was doing a simple stitch on a shirt, and didn’t pause as his eyebrows raised. “Oh? Yet he’s such a playwright. I’d imagine he’d be popular with the cast.”  _ The women and the men.  _

Abigail let out a humorous breath. “That’s just it, sir. One of the actresses was quite smitten with him, and he with her.” 

Ben smiled, though a seed planted itself in his mind. He desired it gone the moment it took root, but he couldn’t let it die. “I suppose that’s gone awry, then.” The needle pricked his thumb, and he quietly winced. Abigail made a noise of disapproval, and handed him a thimble that he sheepishly accepted.

“Well, sir, he happened to quit her soon after letting you read some Shakespeare.”

He remained silent for a few steady beats of his heart. “Perhaps the Major simply needed more male acquaintance.”

It seemed unlikely, stupid, even. A man of Andre’s reputation simply did not quit a woman for friendship. He lusted for Ben, and Ben…

There was a pistol in the household meant for him. Andre’s life would weigh in his hands, then; the game of draughts would be in his favor.

Abigail hummed. “He’s a flirt, even charms me a little.” She inspected her handiwork - more exact than Ben’s, as she was mending the lacing on Andre’s uniform coat. Ben supposed that meant York was seeing a dressed down Major Andre - or perhaps not. The Royal Army was not as poor as its Continental equivalent was. “But he-” She looked up from the garment to search for her words. “Well, it’s just that I feel the war separates some good people from us. You’d be a steady visitor, sir, if you could be friends.”

His smile was genuine this time, not tainted with his unfounded jealousy. “That I would be.”

 

Major Andre arrived for a late supper to be served. His good looks remained unmarred by his troubled sleep, though there was no denying he was not as cheerful. 

But he was a beautiful man.

“I must insist on you having a meal with me, Major Tallmadge.” Andre didn’t appear surprised in the slightest that Ben was with Abigail. He was untying his neckcloth, and Ben dumbly nodded his head. 

“Ah- of course, sir. But I might help-”

“No need, Major.” Abigail cut him off, earning a grin from Andre where another man might have grown foul with her.  “I’m sure Major Andre and you each would like a drink before eating.” Ben found no room for argument, so he bowed his head slightly.

“Thank you, Abigail.” Andre replied, stepping graciously out of the doorway to allow him through. He found no need to wait for Andre, and found his way to the sitting room with ease. Wine and conversation might’ve settled his nerves, so Ben filled himself a glass before Andre joined him.

In a move that made Ben chuckle, Andre plucked his glass from his hands. “I do apologize for not informing you of your parole as soon as I set it.” A drink made his face crinkle, and he picked up the decanter to see its contents.

Ben shook his head, “No need. Though it was unsettling for my morning to be so quiet.”

Andre shrugged, setting down the decanter and glass both. “Ensigns carry on too much, especially ones so young. Never cease to exhaust me.” He eyed him in wonder while Ben simply drank out of the glass he had quitted.

Ben coughed, the wine sour. “Ah - sir, I do think we should choose a different drink.”

His rival smiled, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. 

_ What would a man betray his country for? Male beauty? _

Nathan had been beautiful, too.

“Perhaps simple rum will suit supper well. I’ll be sure to find a proper wine for tonight.”

Dining together had gone so  _ smoothly _ the time before. Yet Ben was sure Andre would leave the gallows out of conversation - it upset him just as much as it incited Ben’s patriotism. Andre cocked his head at him.

“Do you wish for council? I can have a pastor here as soon as you need.”

Ben pondered, tapping a finger on the sidetable. Providence had proved of little use, though he did ache to be able to form a prayer, what had once come so naturally to a son of a reverend. God did weigh on his mind, though perhaps in light of what set Ben’s blood aflame, He would abandon his lost child.

“No, thank you.” He all but sighed. “I will pray for my sins without council, if I may.”

Again, Andre studied him as he might have studied a curiosity of science. “No need for my permission, Major. If you wish to speak with God, so be it.” He made his way to the table once Abigail came through the door. 

Ben risked sitting at Andre’s side, shifting his silver as he had before. “Are you an atheist, Major Andre?” He asked; simple curiosity, though he found certain aspects of Andre’s character Christian, he wondered if religion swayed the man in any fashion.

Andre shook his head. “No, that I am not. My studies exposed me to quite a number of beliefs, and I find each fascinating. But I was baptized Anglican, and I desire a Christian burial once I pass. I do read the Bible on occasion.” 

“And what do you think of some of the patriots, calling our cause ordained by God?”

The knife in Andre’s hand cut neatly into the chicken on his plate, and his lips smiled thinly. “No war, fought by Britain or your America, or any nation on this earth, is ordained by any benevolent God.”

_ But perhaps one that is heartless.  _ They finished their meal among other topics. As Ben expected, Andre was careful to not further reference the execution. Instead, it was little inquiries about Ben’s family, being raised in Setauket. Stories of playing at the beach, digging for oysters, swimming on Sundays when he wasn’t supposed to, were met with interest and mirth.

“I must ask something else of you, Major Tallmadge.” Andre spoke, while Abigail carefully maneuvered plates in her grasp. Ben leaned in his chair, and nodded.

“I’ll hear it, sir.”

Andre hesitated, which caught Ben’s attention. The man felt too sure in too many of his actions and words for that to fit in with his person. “You’ve seen my sketches. I draw from life, as I’ve told you. I was wondering if I might be able to sketch you, before-”

There he stopped, and picked up a moment later. “I would send it to your father, if I may.”

Nathan’s noose threatened to squeeze all air out of Ben’s throat. He could feel himself pale - and this was a man he was to  _ hate _ , was to throw aside for his escape. “Yes-” He breathed, and kept himself from flinching. “I would be honored, Major Andre. And I thank you for thinking of my father.”

He would burst at his seams if he did not leave this room soon. Andre must have sensed as much, and simply asked if he would join him for dinner. Ben bobbed his head in acceptance, and quickly made his exit.

He collapsed in his room the moment the door fell closed. There just was no better place he could  _ go _ , and he pressed his forehead against the cot as he cried. 

“Lord, I ask for your forgiveness,” Ben wept, calling out to a higher power he was unsure of. “For all that I’ve done, and for all that I must do.”

_ Please, forgive me, I cannot forgive myself. _

 

Abigail did not inquire about the state of his knees when he came up for dinner. She only asked if he would set the table - in the  _ English _ manner. Ben spent a few minutes seeing her example of it - surely he could not foul up two place settings.

He did.

“Christ,” He muttered, attempting to fix his follies. A server he was not, it proved clear. Satisfied with how each looked, Ben let out a sigh of relief.

“Newfound respect for Abigail, I see.”

Ben bit the inside of his cheek, fighting back a grin. “I have had the utmost respect for her since our meeting, Major Andre.” He turned, and Andre cocked an eyebrow, striding towards the table.

“Did you not know one another while in Setauket?” He drew out his chair, and sat with one elbow at its headrest. Ben shrugged, not moving to his seat just yet.

“I did not have many opportunities to know her as I’ve come to.” It was true; Ben did not know Abigail past knowing her name and face. He remembered her husband: the way Cicero smiled struck a familiar chord. 

Andre drew his finger along the rim of his glass. “You knew her mistress, though? Her name was Anna?”

He covered his hesitation with taking his chair. “Ah- yes. One of my dearest friends.” Had Andre read the letters he’d left at his table? Ben felt his cheeks warm. 

Andre smiled, returning the tease to his manner. “Dearest, I can believe. She must have your affections.”

“Well,” Ben’s voice grew a touch higher, and he winced. “She’s- I do love her,”

Andre’s tongue was at his cheek, and Ben believed those blue eyes darkened.

“But it is not the way most men would love her. My, uh, fervor has cooled upon reflection. It would insult the memory of her husband-”  _ Though not to the extent of Abe’s actions. _ Selah still believed Anna’s heart was his, or at least her loyalties. “And I had no intention of sending my letters to her.”

Anna and Caleb both would never have him forget it. He couldn’t imagine, either, how Anna’s fragile reputation in Setauket would fare if she received love letters from the “rebel” major that had lead a raid the autumn before. He would not wish to place more strain upon her than the ring already had.

A bottle of Madeira had graced the dining table, unopened. Ben was the first to move for it, and opened it without ceremony. “Well, besides, I feel war is not- uh, the- time. For any such thing.” He took the glass meant for Andre, filled that first, before turning to his.  _ Intelligence _ officer, spymaster, and he could not string together words properly. The wine went down his throat without a second thought.

His eyes did not fall on Andre for a few beats of his heart. When they did, Andre only appeared bewildered, and Ben cleared his throat. “I’ve done a poor job of explaining what Anna means to me. She’s more a sister, I realize, than a potential lover to me.”

The only lover he’d wished to keep had never known the taste of his lips, the extent of his devotion. His Pythias died and took any chances Ben believed he had with him.

And sat John Andre, a prince where Nathan had been a knight. Darker hair, taller frame, different oath to a different higher power. Yet the eyes, as clear as water, reminded Ben of his martyred friend.

Perhaps he had a desire to drown.

Dinner cooled to a less tense affair, Ben giving his opinion on the British navy, and its eternal enemy, France’s  _ La Royale _ . André admitted to not being partial to seafaring, or the act of battling in the open seas - ports and their cities were what needed to be protected. Benjamin believed he’d grow exhausted of the scenery and cramped nature of a ship far too fast to be of use to any navy.

“You don’t believe the ‘Continental Navy’ sounds nice?” Andre could not hide the laugh bleeding through his words, the lines crinkling at his face. Ben colored, but shrugged.

“Might you be saying America will have her own navy?” An eyebrow quirked - any emotion about how Andre felt towards the Revolution was interesting to Ben. At times he felt he could truly say Major John Andre was a  _ sympathizer _ .

“Ah - if the king and his ministers desire it.” Andre’s fork picked the last of his pie off his plate; he’d known exactly how to respond to any sort of patriotism from his rival. Ben chuckled, feeling no malice from his words, or even founded truth.

Andre wiped at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, his tongue at the other. There was a burning at Ben’s chest.

“There is a guest room upstairs you may have, if you wish.” Andre spoke evenly, offering such accommodations as though he hadn’t shared an embrace with Ben at all. His eyes betrayed hope, though, and Ben was  _ tempted _ .

“Ah- I- am quite used to a camp bed, sir. Though I thank you for the offer.” He quickly went with rationality, instead of what was making the tips of his fingers quake. He did jump upon generosity, however. “I would quite care for proper bedclothes and a pillow.”

Andre gave a slow nod. “Of course. It’ll be done this very night.” He then stood from the table, straightening his jacket. “I’ll see to it that Cicero dresses your cot.”

Ben swallowed, not ready to stand, himself. “My thanks, again. I’ll have to repay you by being a decent muse, tomorrow.”

_ Tomorrow _ . It was a heavy word, filled simultaneously with hope and dread. No matter its weight, Andre truly smiled.

“That you will, indeed. I’ll be home fairly late - prepare yourself for a long evening.”

It would be the longest of Ben’s life yet.

They bade one another good night, Andre leaving Ben to his own devices just as Abigail entered to gather dishes. He leaned his forehead against his palm and sighed, eyes closed. 

“What am I to do, Abigail?” He asked, quiet against the  _ clink _ of porcelain. She was silent, long enough for Ben to think she wouldn’t answer at all, before her steadfast voice filled his ears.

“You said it before, Major Tallmadge. We do what we must.”

 

_ His father sat alone in front of the hearth. Samuel and William’s ghosts skirted at the edge of the room. A man who would know of three dead sons. _

_ “Father?” Ben dared to breathe, but the reverend was deaf to him, and Ben glanced at the flames. _

_ There the leather cord of Reverend Worthington’s cross curdled, the metal blackening in the heat. _

_ Fingers wrapped at Ben’s throat, a gentle squeeze that made the blood rush to his head. Nails scraped lightly against skin: a nose went to his hair and lips were at his ear. Fear ran a shiver at Ben’s spine, and he gasped. _

_ “‘But that I loved Rome more,’” Andre’s whisper made tears threaten to spill over, but then he squeezed, harder and harder. Ben could not fight, feeling that his arms would not move. He was choking, and there was darkness, and there was light because Nathan was smiling, and there was Heaven in his eyes but there was the same Heaven in Andre’s- _

Ben awoke with a headache. He that there was squeezing of his skull and ribcage both, and he sat up to perhaps remedy through this onset of anxiety.

As far as Andre knew, Ben would be dead by tomorrow afternoon. Ben keenly felt that possibility, however much he rejected it, as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and attempted to take deep breaths. Tonight, he’d do what he’d kept patient for, though he dreaded it.

He dressed, careful to have his waistcoat lie just so. He expected to be allowed to shave today, as his cheeks now had a layer of stubble, running down his jaw. After waiting for quite a time, Ben gave up that assumption and finished tying his hair back.

Parole was obviously something he was never supposed to get used to, and he wasn’t. It felt odd to simply walk into the upstairs, where war hadn’t touched the townhouses of York City.

Though he had thought of  _ after the war _ , many times before, it was a moment where he realized he wouldn’t know how to adjust as a civilian. Yet here he was, away from camp, out of uniform and playing at what may be in his future. A home with warmth, well kept and well furnished. A library quite like the one Andre enjoyed.

Perhaps Ben would begin a family after America won her independence. Children were among the few truly happy things in life, and Ben had always desired fatherhood. He couldn’t describe the feeling in his heart when, upon accepting yet another invitation to dinner, Wadsworth’s own children first called him _ Uncle Tallmadge _ .

But marriage-

Ben let that thought lie where it may, not to pick it up til he had to.

He ate breakfast in the kitchen, where Abigail attempted to ease the severity of the day by speaking about Cicero’s improvement upon reading and writing. She hadn’t approved, at first, but as long as it didn’t interfere with his duties, or keep him up too late, she couldn’t reason why it may prove dangerous to him.

There was an empty mug of milk when Abigail finished, and Ben set it down. “Does Major Andre know?”

Her sigh was answer enough. “Yes, he caught him reading one of his books. Let’s him borrow one or two.”

There was little else to be expected from Andre’s character. “If he could, I’d imagine the Major would want to instruct him.”

Abigail smiled gently at that, though her eyebrows furrowed. “Didn’t you go to Yale for teaching, sir?”

He blushed, flattered that she had remembered what seemed an eternity ago. “Yes, I did. Even taught before enlisting.” A true experience. Rowdy boys, Greek lessons… Ben rather missed it. Helped him think about how he might educate both his sons and daughters, as well.

Abigail hesitated. “Well, it’d be nice to think that you might’ve helped with his letters.”

At that he laughed, a tinge of morosity staining it. “I would have been honored.”

She nodded, and thankfully, tactfully, changed the subject. “Would you mind more sewing today, sir?”

Ben grinned. “No, no I would not.”

 

Major Andre gave his regrets in the late afternoon that he had not supped at home. He directed it towards Ben, giving the impression he truly regretted not spending more of the day in his presence.

_ Christ _ . Ben believed himself a touch arrogant for finding ways to reason why he might fill Andre’s head.

He had expected time to pass slowly, yet it hadn’t. He’d mended with Abigail, read some editions of the  _ Gazette _ and its horrendous bias, and simply lazed about, as much as one could. Time passed as it always did, and so hours ran by.

Andre was visibly more irritated; he fussed at getting his infernal red coat off, only in his waistcoat, now. He immediately went for whisky, and Ben eyed him curiously, an open novel on his lap.

“Will you still be sketching my portrait, sir?” He decided to tease, to see if Andre would relax at all. The man took some time to drain his glass, yet gave a laugh, and nodded.

“I certainly will, though I think we’ll have to start after dinner.” He approached where Ben was lounging on the couch, and briefly Ben’s heart drummed a tattoo loud enough for battle.

Andre took a seat in his own armchair, and Ben eased. “What book is it that you’re reading?” Andre’s lips pressed against his glass, though no alcohol remained. Ben was mesmerized before glancing down.

“Ah- Gulliver’s Travels. Pretty fanciful, I say, yet… adventurous.” He hadn’t been giving it the attention it deserved, but obviously his priorities were elsewhere. The cover fell shut; he stretched and let out a sigh.

“Are you sure you’ll not be wanting a chaplain, Major?” Gently, Andre inquired again on whether Ben thought his soul fit for execution. Ben shook his head, lolling on the back of the sofa.

“Thank you, sir, but I prayed solely this afternoon and yester morning. I feel that satisfies God enough.” He could not see Andre, as his eyes were on the ceiling, where some paint was finely cracking. Morbidly, he decided to add. “It won’t be long before I meet Him myself,”

And perhaps it wouldn’t be. However, he could hear the hurt when Andre spoke.

“ _ Please _ , Major Tallmadge, you mustn’t-“ But it must have been a battle Andre thought not worth it, because he cut himself off. “Never mind it. We’ll leave all discussion of tomorrow for after dinner, yes?”

_ After dinner, after dinner. I might be forced to kill you after dinner. _ Ben conceded with a nod, and asked Andre to tell him about the schools in Geneva again, as it had captured his interest when they each told stories of their youth - though Andre pointedly said Ben could still pass as a college student. Ben could find no real reason to say he was wrong, because there was a fair point, there.

They conducted themselves in the same manner over dinner. “I feel that your compassion was grown more in Geneva than in England, sir.” Ben commented, earning the chortle of disapproval and humor he expected.

“I rather see it where I grew to love more vice than virtue,” Andre admitted, “But I will say my principles were certainly cultivated in my schooling. Can you not say the same?”

Yale had indeed given him plenty opportunity for academic debate, and he had many with Nathan. “I can, quite easily.”

“A pity we each enlisted,” Andre stood, setting his glass aside, and stretched. “If you could find yourself a seat, Major Tallmadge, I’ll be back to start your portrait.”

Ben was aware of the small time gap that would allow him to find Abigail, and get the pistol meant for him. He gave a short bob of the head. “Of course, sir.”

Andre seemed to want to ask him something, before abruptly turning to leave. His footfalls were muffled past the door, and once Ben was certain he was upstairs, he bolted for the kitchen. Abigail’s eyes widened the moment he entered.

“Where is-” He didn’t even finish before she grabbed both his hands, dragging him to the corridor. She fumbled with a set of keys, and, to Ben’s surprise, let out a string of curses that would have impressed even Caleb.

“I wasn’t expectin’ this to be so  _ soon _ ,” She shook her head, and pulled the door open, searching for the gun. “He’ll take some time - I moved the pencils he likes to use.”

Ben was astonished. “How did you know he wouldn’t set everything out beforehand?”

Abigail pressed the pistol in his hand, “Major Andre likes to draw at night, and just keeps his things upstairs.” She jerked her head back towards the cupboard. “There’s a cloak and hat in there, too, sir.”

They each flinched when they heard the door open, and Ben quickly stuffed his weapon at the back of his breeches, his coat covering it. Swiftly, before he would take a carefully sat pose in the sitting room, he planted his lips on Abigail’s cheek.

“You’ve done too much, Abigail. I’ll not ever be able to repay you in full.”

With that, he left her, anxious to appear like he was only fidgety about having his likeness drawn out. The fire flickered in front of the sofa, and Ben was certain Andre would take his own seat in the armchair he so liked.

He closed his eyes, evening out his breaths. The flintock handle was pressing at his back.

_ Lord, forgive me for- _

“This will take some time, as I hope you know, Major Tallmadge.” Andre’s voice pulled him from his attempts at repentance, and Ben flashed a smile.

“I wasn’t expecting your talents to shine through without patience.”

“ _ Ha _ ,” The artist was finding a clean sheet in his sketchbook to get started. Ben noticed that he’d tucked a pencil behind his ear, and that charmed him. Andre made himself comfortable, then put his fingers to his lips.

Ben grew self-conscious, and his pulse thumped in his ears. “Ah, should I move?”

The pads of Andre’s fingers danced on his cupid’s bow. “Hm, yes, I think only a bit will do. I just want the light to hit your face well.”

Ben adjusted himself accordingly, forced himself to relax, and he finally did once he heard the scratch of Andre’s pencil on page. He was uncertain to start conversation, but only a few minutes passed in silence before Andre spoke.

“Have you ever sat for a portrait before?”

“No, sir, though I’ve been told I should have.” Caleb teased that instead of anyone painting ‘ol’ Georgie’ they should be painting the most handsome man in the Continental Army. Ben could never accept a compliment, especially not one so brazen as Caleb could make them.

Andre hummed, and Ben wondered what he’d make of the “handsome” comment.  _ Pride goeth before destruction. _

He would fall quite hard tonight.

His right leg bounced, before he was told to keep still. Now, face flushed with embarrassment, heart beating with his nerves, Ben inwardly wondered  _ when _ he would make his move.  _ After dinner, you said, you fool- after this, now. You’ll hang tomorrow if you keep passive around a man who will likely forget you once your skin turns cold. _

Would he? Ben dared think not. Andre had been so invested in  _ saving _ him, even protesting before Clinton. He only knew too well how generals did not care for insubordination, warranted or otherwise.

Andre was interesting to watch, invested entirely in his drawing now, hardly pausing to glance up at Ben for the details. He must have contented himself with the pose, though Ben remained as still as he felt he could be. Brows creased, and his eyes afire with an intensity not unlike the fire towards Simcoe, he looked a true classic male beauty. It was hard for John Andre to appear otherwise.

“Are you pleased, sir?” Ben could not help but ask, finally pulling Andre from the page. His lips quirked.

“There is something about your face that is nice to draw. The curve of your jaw or your nose.  _ I _ am pleased, but perhaps you’d like to see for yourself.” Instead of simply handing over the book to Ben, as he expected, Andre moved to the sofa.

The reverence of his compliment reverberated in Ben’s soul, and there was a tingling in his fingers again. He swallowed, leaning over to inspect the man’s work.

His cheeks grew hotter, and his lips parted in surprise. There he sat, as if transpired from reality itself. His eyes were hooded, as he’d looked down, and it gave a solemn impression. Andre had even shaded the light stubble at his face. “It is- the likeness is there, sir. It would do well to send it to my father.”

Andre was staring at him, not in despair as his gazes had held the last two days, but again as if he knew the secrets of the world. Ben wondered why, as his next words revealed nothing behind those eyes. “I’m sure it would. I apologize that I can only share it through a circumstance neither of us truly wished for.”

The book was set aside, though Andre did not move away. Quite the opposite: he leaned nearer Ben’s face, and tilted his head. “Major Tallmadge,” His voice was soft. “You refused my hospitality last night. Would it have troubled you to be so near my bedroom?”

Ben’s eyes widened, and he swallowed, but he would not move away, would not run from at least this moment. “I… it would have, yes. You are- much too charming, sir.”

Andre moved his hand, dragging his index fingers along Ben’s jaw, up the scar at his cheek. “Am I? I think you are unaware of the power you have, Benjamin.” He paused, cupping Ben’s cheek now, and Ben leaned into his touch. “I can call you Benjamin, yes?”

“Yes,” Ben breathed, and did not wait for Andre to move again. No, he captured the man’s lips on his own, feeling that everything else did not matter, no matter what other action he would take that night. It was not as rough as the first, but it was  _ more. _ Ben had his hands at the front of Andre’s shirt, while Andre’s hands held his face.

It felt like- as though-

_ He knows something. He’s promising something.  _ Ben realized, and pulled away, suddenly, but without the same fear as he had before. Andre’s eyes searched him, and his touch fell away. 

“I’m an officer, as well, Benjamin. I’m quite sure I’d know when a man is carrying a gun.”

“I- could not kill you, Andre.” Ben immediately said, though he stood. Andre, though enamored, was smart enough to stand with him. Before Andre could attempt anything more, Ben drew his pistol, and raised it. Emotion filled his eyes. “I will be leaving, sir.”

Andre’s chest rose and fell, and his voice was strangled as his hands rose in surrender. “I cannot let you walk out of here, unless you wish that I hang in your stead.”

Ben took a few steps to the side, nearing the hall door. “Then you’ll have to-”

“ _ Christ _ , Tallmadge,” Andre swore, before lunging towards him. Ben was caught by surprise, and immediately struck Andre while they both fell to the floor, atop each other.

“Put up a  _ fight _ with me, sir.” The Englishman spoke through his teeth, and Ben understood. Andre had his knee on his chest, but Ben pushed him over so that he was pinned between Ben’s thighs. The pistol was still pointed at him, yet Andre let out a laugh.

“Such a  _ patriot. _ I wish I hated you.”

Ben raised his fist, clasped around the pistol. “I wish you did, too.”

He clubbed him, hard, as though he were striking a devil rather than a walking saint. Andre groaned, and his head lolled to the side. 

Ben was now fighting against the inevitable. The men posted outside would be alerted, would have to be alerted sometime, by Abigail. He glanced at Andre’s unconscious body, and ignored the blood he drew. Tears pricked still at his eyes.

Andre may have given him an opportunity out, but betrayal was still there. Betrayal to  _ who _ , to  _ what _ , Ben was unsure, and felt sick as he stood. 

He had to leave.

Abigail jumped at an opposite doorway once he stepped into the hall. “Get in the cupboard, have Cicero there with you.” Ben said, throwing the door under the stairs open, grabbing the cloak and tricorn he would be wearing out of the city. When she would not move, he resorted to raising his voice. “Get in, or you’ll be caught out!” 

She did as told, and went for Cicero. His hands fumbled at tying the cloak. 

Hatred would make more sense than any of this.

Abigail pushed Cicero into the cupboard, and handed over the keys. “Have them turned in the lock. Make it look as though you nicked them.” She was holding her boy close to her, and Ben nodded. 

“Thank you.” Was all he could say, and heeded her advice, closing her in, and locking the door from the outside.

He’d leave through the back, climb over into the streets where he could find a steed.

Fresh, night air hit him, and that was when his first tears spilt - out of relief. He’d done it. 

A shriek pierced the air. Abigail was screaming from inside the house. Ben bolted, hiding in the shadows as he could hear the clamor of men entering the house. His window of chance was closing. 

He scaled the back wall, and again over a neighboring one, before coming out an alley in the streets. Andre’s house had been well looked over, five or so ensigns outside it. None noticed him simply walk away, flintock ready in his hands.

A horse was stolen not a few minutes later, having made quick time of untying the beauty from its post. Horses had always taken to Ben, no matter how stubborn the animal could be with him. He was no stranger to pushing his steed to speed, and it was certainly no different this night.

Ben broke city limits when he felt the weight of something at the pockets of his cloak. Gripping the reigns in one hand, he drew it out with the other.

Moonlight reflected still off a tarnished cross, the same he’d thrown into the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so grateful you guys are patient! A whole month, but I'm settled into college and I'm really happy with my classes. Especially my library, which allowed me to find a nice Tallmadge biography, subsequently allowing me to add little details and pick out historical events not mentioned in Turn. Some references in this chapter are what I'd like to talk about (though two are just minor things, and not biography related.) In order:
> 
> The "Colonel Webb" was, in fact, a real person. Lieutenant Colonel Samuel B. Webb was captured in Setauket on September 10, 1777. He was then part of a prisoner exchange in 1781.
> 
> Andre quotes Shakespeare's Julius Caesar in Ben's dream. The full quote reads: "If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer: not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more." It more reflects Ben's feelings towards America, since it is his subconscious. 
> 
> "Uncle Tallmadge" !!! Ben had a friend named Jeremiah Wadsworth, who he wrote to frequently. He was often over at the man's home for dinner, and the children grew very fond of him.
> 
> "Pride goeth before destruction." is from the often misquoted Proverbs 16:18, where usually one would say "Pride goeth before the fall." Growing up with a minister father, I'm sure Ben would know plenty of Bible verses.
> 
> More research for the upcoming chapters! I'm quite excited to get to these, for many reasons. And I get to read more about dear Andre. There will be another long wait, but I'm so ready for that sweet sweet Thanksgiving break already. Love you guys for sticking with me. <3 I'm quite active on my Tumblr, which you can find at americantoinette.


	8. VIII.

Lieutenant Gamble had been shot, and from what Andre could make of it, he’d been shot close range. The cruelty in it unsettled him - though Gamble had made a _mistress_ of cruelty.

The dead man’s hand loosely covered an article, and Andre’s curiosity was enough to get him to crouch near. He heard the footfalls of an officer behind him, and let out an irritated sigh- news of the ambush, and what _else_ -

“Major Andre, sir, we’ve found some privateers.” The flushed ensign breathed, and Andre narrowed his eyes.

“This _is_ the area for _pirates_ , ensign. What compelled you to tell me?” Venom coated his words - he was displeased, angry for quite a few reasons. There was no explanation for how _Major Tallmadge_ had come across this rendezvous. Not in any of their time together had Benjamin come near any intelligence. His fleeting parole made Andre sure to lock away papers, secure upstairs.

Yet, he’d gotten hold of a pistol. Andre’s scalp was still healing.

The junior officer blanched. “Wh-what are we to do with them?”

“You’re a soldier of the Royal Army, sir! Arrest them, hang them, they’re disrupting trade in the colonies and profiting off war! You needn’t ask me how you _handle_ such matters.” Andre raised his voice, not deeming the conversation worthy of standing. The ensign nodded liberally, and escaped with false dignity. He turned to Gamble’s body, carefully moving the man’s hand off his chest.

He let out a laugh that was little more than a gasp of air, though there was no true humor to be had.

Benjamin had left him the Reverend's cross.

 

Henry had been quite foul with him for the last _damned_ fortnight. Andre was tiring of it, had tired of it within the first hour of a lecture. _‘Let him slip through, did you? The key to winning these forsaken colonies back and you get_ smacked! _My God, John, is there no end to you surprising me-’_

_And how might you feel that I more or less opened the door for him?_ Andre had wished to give his general a good thrashing, put his self-loathing to some use. Instead he set his face hard, and let Henry rant himself red.

Now was a simmering anger, clipped words and gazes that would be enough for a duel to some men.

Duels were pitiful displays of honor, and though Andre thought himself a pitiful man for letting a _rebel_ into his mind, into his thoughts of pleasure - he’d let it lie.

“And you’re certain enough bills circulated already?”

He fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Indeed, sir. The plan will work just as well.” _Despite whatever rat skitters about in York._

The cross sat upstairs next to his bed.

Clinton shook his head. “Damned shame - there’s been far too many reckless and senseless deaths!” He helped himself to a bit of Madeira.

Andre quirked an eyebrow. “Have you not just described all wars known to man?”

Henry _hmphed_ into the glass, shaking his head. “You and your Swiss spouting. You know what I meant! A soldier should have the honor bestowed on him to die on the battlefield.”

_Ah, butchered by rebels in an open field._ General Washington was no _god_ , but a harbinger of death with his mismatched and improperly uniformed troops. Britain was an _empire_ \- what was this America?

( _‘What makes you a patriot?’ Andre questioned, the night hours stretching out. Benjamin Tallmadge smiled from his camp bed._

_‘What makes you a Tory?”’ Ben immediately quipped, then shifted in his position, and answered. ‘I was born here, sir, not in England, fine as it may be. I simply see no reason for my home to be ruled by a man who has never walked the ground he so proclaims is his.’_

_‘Ah, so perhaps I request His Majesty pop on over for a visit, and all shall be well?’ He teased, feeling a touch affronted. Ben frowned, and they had a short argument about taxation._ )

He tapped his index finger on his knee, staring off at a corner of his rug. Henry plopped on the sofa in front of him, and narrowed his eyes.

“Might I be distracting you?” He gruffly asked. Manners had diminished in light of the tightening frustrations. Andre thinly smiled.

“I should be asking if I’m distracting _you_ from your other duties, sir. I have intelligence handled; Mrs. Barnes has no fresh news to speak of, and I have no further word from Arnold.” His jaw tightened - Benedict Arnold was far too much _work_ , and overestimated his value to the Royal Army. Yet Andre had set out to turn him traitor, and he _would_. The personal connections to Washington alone would fracture how the Americans operated.

And to turn a major general… the deserters would multiply day by day. No one would follow a man that allowed that to happen.

So much promise, wrapped up in a foul man. A foul man he’d shackled Peggy to…

Henry barked a laugh, and stood. “Benedict Arnold is a finicky _prick_ , and if he were ranked a golden _thread_ lower, I wouldn’t bother with the man in the slightest. He’s lucky Washington thinks highly of him.”

Andre had stood with him, and now they were facing each other. Henry pursed his lips. “Thought quite highly of Major Tallmadge, too.”

He was tempted to grind his teeth. “General Washington _also_ thinks highly of the Marquis. And a number of his aides.” And, according to Benjamin, nearly every man who claimed America as independent.

Did such a leader exist? Andre was admittedly fond of Henry, knew he was a strategist and a damned good joker. But Henry saw people by their rank and class. He did not have the title of lord or duke by blood, but in practice he certainly conducted himself as one. Henry was clearly a man for war, yet he saw the army as units, not as men.

Henry held out his hand, to part on more amiable terms. “Well, perhaps you may catch yourself a Frenchman.”

Andre shook his hand with a touch more force than he might have, and bowed. “Perhaps.”

The Marquis de Lafayette was young, naive and brazen. Andre somewhat expected the noble to orchestrate his own battlefield demise from his recklessness. He held no faith in any plot to capture him, either.

Besides, Andre was rather impressed by Lafayette’s actions at Brandywine. Shot in the calf, continuing to fight til exhaustion overtook him. The man shouldn’t have been off his horse in the first place, yet Andre respected a leader that wished to fight with his soldiers.

General Clinton left him, and as soon as the door to his home fell shut, Andre flopped down unceremoniously into his armchair, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

The war was a means to an end. Three long years, thousands of men dead, thrice as many captured, and for what? Because taxes were _now_ injust? Because a King was _now_ tyrannical? Why couldn’t America just simply be-

A soft knock came from the door: Abigail. Andre lifted his head. “Come in.”

She cautiously made her way in; it was likely she heard Henry’s raving. He leaned back in his seat somewhat, pondering blue; blue of a rebel uniform, blue of a rebel’s eyes.

“Will you be wanting supper, sir?” She asked, picking up the glass Clinton had left behind. Andre had not drank any with him. He shook his head, a different temptation beckoning him. It’d been planted in his thoughts for some time, but he had a game of seeing how long he could withstand it.

It was high time to lose.

He stood, and adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’ll be going out; I’m likely to not be back til after dinner.” That was only if things went exceptionally well, and they were likely not to. Abigail nodded - she never asked too many questions, even though Andre was quite certain she got her gossip one way or another.

He hadn’t exactly been _secretive_ with Peggy, and despite his wish for otherwise, he was certain his interest in Benjamin was just as obvious. Abigail never breathed a word against him, though.

Andre truly cared for her. “If I’m not back, let Cicero know I’ll ask him about his reading tomorrow.” He smiled, knowing how proud she was of her son’s taking to words. Her cheeks took on a deep red hue, and she modestly looked away.

“Of course, sir. I will.”

 

The subject of his interest greeted him with coolness, a chill Andre had predicted.

Freddy Morgan set his jaw, speaking with empty politeness. “How honored I am to have you walk in, Major Andre.” Briefly, he narrowed his gaze, before placing down a comb. He had been styling a man’s wig, and he leaned against his work table with the palm of his hand.

Andre gave him a slight bow, his tricorn tucked under his arm. “Mister Morgan - a pleasure to see you.”

“Of that I’m certain,” Freddy dryly replied, and raised his eyebrows. “What might I be able to do for you? I see no wig, and I don’t believe you would like your hair set, unless you’ve brought a sketch for me to copy.”

Philomena Cheer was a chief regret of Andre’s, and he closed his eyes in defeat, lowering his head. A finger tapped at his hat before he looked up again, attempting a smile.

“I should like to drink with you, sir, if you’d accept it.”

Freddy’s eyes widened, and he shifted, lips parting in an amused fashion. “Oh? And should I accept, might I ask the nature of your invitation?”

Andre shrugged, holding out his hat in his hand. “Simple company, and a… proposition, of sorts.”

The man studied him, and it was near the same gaze any general had when going over field maps. Strategizing, evaluating… “I would not care for a public rejection to harm your reputation, sir.” Freddy turned from him, tidying up odds and ends of his space. The lace sleeves underneath his coat brushed against excess powder as he dusted it away. “So, Major Andre, I think it fitting to accept your drink at my home.”

He had not quite expected that.

“As to not _harm_ my reputation?” He ventured, wanting to find his footing. That merely earned him a thin smile, implications aplenty for Andre to sift through.

“And we may talk freely, as well, sir.” Freddy finished, and placed a hand at his hip. “I’m not terribly sure you’d want any old someone at any old inn to know of your less _gentlemanly_ conduct.”

Andre wished for a retreat, but what he had done was quite… despicable. Desiring Peggy in his arms again so much that he settled for an imitation. The blame lay with no one but himself, and now Miss Cheer fooled herself into believing she was in love with him.

John Andre’s heart was twisted. He loved, and cared, and lusted. He simply just didn’t feel that all for one person.

He gave Freddy a nod of the head, “Then I’ll return later this evening. I’m not wanting to keep you from your work.”

Again, he earned a questioning look. “Very well. Thank you for the invitation, Major Andre.” Freddy turned from him, expecting Andre to take his leave. That he did, civilly bidding the coiffeur farewell.

He amused himself by visiting Rivington’s, engaging Mister Townsend in light conversation that continued a flirting nature. It was a pity, though. Andre could tell when a man pined. He simply wondered who. Certainly _not_ James Rivington. The Quaker’s disdain for the older man was obvious, and Andre bit his tongue to keep from chuckling at their interactions.

The sun was bleeding out when he finally left, thinking of life sketching one evening at Rivington’s. It would do well to pass the time in that manner, should he find his evenings empty again.

Freddy was locking his salon’s door when Andre greeted him. “Mister Morgan, I trust your day has fared well?”

“In most aspects, yes, Major Andre, it has.” Freddy replied, a tad more docile than earlier. Perhaps he’d thought over Andre in the hours since. He tucked away his set of keys, and adjusted the hat on his head. Freddy was a truly striking man, though rather French in his tastes. There was a hint of rogue on his lips and cheeks, something popular even with men in the court of Versailles.

Andre admired Freddy’s disregard for how he may be perceived. “What is it about your profession that drew you to it, Mister Morgan?” Andre decided to ask as they strolled. Freddy audibly drew in a tired breath, as though he’d had to defend what he did before. Quickly, Andre added. “I’m genuinely curious. I can hardly care for my own hair, much less another’s.”

His companion was silent for a moment as they walked. “I’m the third son of five children. My two brothers have survived into adulthood. The eldest is married with children. The other is engaged. Each with a career that pleases my father.”

“And what about yours?”

At this, Freddy smiled. “My mother loved when I would help her with her hair. She never followed what was the fashion for England - she’s French, you see.”

Andre was warmed. “As is my own mother, sir. I understand your fondness for the… culture.” He could not exactly speak of his own admiration for the country, as its king was condoning the rejection of another monarch.

Freddy laughed, a sound that wasn’t feminine as Andre rather unfairly expected; a low sound that echoed in the streets. “Culture, indeed. I am no rebel, Major, but England is fairly stiff in society. That Cavendish woman is the only thing interesting as of late.”

“Ah, her husband is a fool for not paying her any mind. A rather clever woman, I hear.”

Freddy sighed. “I chose to be a hairdresser because women are charming, and are more at ease around me than they would be with other men. They desire to look beautiful for men, and I help them realize they truly desire to be beautiful for themselves. That’s all.”

Impressed, Andre could think of nothing to say for a moment. “I suppose women treat you more kindly, as well?” He inferred.

“Oh, what a shock that must be! Yes, it appears most men can’t- won’t-” Frustrated, Freddy shook his head. “No fault of mine. I can be acquaintances and friends with a man just fine, and yet a smile is taken in the wrong manner. I can’t go about announcing what everyone already knows, yet I’m as honest as I can be. But some just… ah,” His eyes widened, and the rogue at his cheeks darkened with natural blush. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to go on such a rampage. My mood is unbecoming.”

Andre shook his head. “I must disagree, Mister Morgan, I like to hear someone speak with such passion. If it truly upsets you, there’s no reason you shouldn’t make it known.”

Freddy halted, and turned to Andre, face unreadable, which Andre was unused to. “Major, what is it you’ve taken a whole day to ask of me?”

He was not going to lie, nor make his intentions unclear. “I desire your friendship, Mister Morgan. Simply put, I want you.”

Freddy scoffed, though he was flustered. “Your frankness is much appreciated, sir. I can’t imagine you’re in love with me, though you may fling your passions at a new soul every week.” He sighed, and continued walking, Andre watching his back before deciding to follow.

“I will apologize if I’ve offended you, Mister Morgan.”

His companion came to a stop at a fine townhouse, and went to its door. “You’ve not offended me; I supposed I’ve abused your manners this evening, if anything.” He turned to Andre. “You are a handsome man, Andre, and witty. All things you know, I’m sure.” Freddy gestured for Andre to step inside, where a lone maid bowed in greeting. Freddy took off his hat, and Andre removed his cloak.

“Harriet, do show Major Andre the sitting room. I’ll join him in a moment.”

Harriet was rather pretty, and Andre thanked her when she took his things. For a house lived in by a bachelor, it was well kept. Again, Freddy’s tastes leaned more French, and Andre was admiring the quaint painting of sheep herders when the master of the house joined him.

Freddy’s natural hair was dark, and he’d taken time to tie it pack in a scarlet ribbon. He’d taken time to remove his jacket, too, and replaced that with a robe.

He was very pleasing to look upon.

Andre said just as much. “Your hair is quite nice, Mister Morgan.”

He received an amused hum in reply, and Freddy touched the gold frame of his painting. “I’ll admit wigs are quite some trouble, yet I find them attractive.”

“I don’t find my own very attractive,” Andre admitted, giving Freddy space in front of the mantel. Freddy laughed, quirking an eyebrow.

“I suppose that’s one of the first times you’ve ever said something like _that_.” His arm dropped to his side, and he went over to his side table. “Care for some wine?”

“Yes, thank you.” Andre went to his side, and Freddy handed him the glass. “Have you considered my offer, sir?”

His host’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I have, and though I’m tempted, my allegiance is sworn to our dear Peggy. I’d feel we’d be cruel to her in our dalliances.”

Andre nodded, though something in him was disappointed. “I did mean it when I spoke of a friendship, though.”

Freddy shrugged, and set down his glass. “Very well; I promise nothing, but we can start there.”

They conversed late into the evening. In doing so, Andre could almost forget piercing blue eyes, could almost forget betraying Great Britain for a _man_.

And yet he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, y'all! It's been quite some time: same excuses, being school and break. I've really missed this fic, and I'm glad to have finally posted, this chapter in particular. Freddy Morgan was a very minor character, but I really wasn't fond of his treatment (the only Season 4 episode he was in was there to call him a "Molly" and poke fun at his personality - ugh!). I'm hoping to write him how I would have liked to seen him.  
> The POV change is done to explore Andre's views, and again, here's hoping that's received well. Feedback is always appreciated, and here's to 2019!


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